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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145511">O, Mnemosyne, tell me of your daughters!</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallestgirlonearth/pseuds/tallestgirlonearth'>tallestgirlonearth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Inspired by Greek Mythology, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:20:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallestgirlonearth/pseuds/tallestgirlonearth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeus, king of the gods, had nine children with Mnemosyne, titan goddess of memory. They are known as the muses, and they bring inspiration, knowledge, artistry and music. </p><p>Andrés and Martín are mere mortals, but who is to say their lives haven't been touched by the gods?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Clio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have literally posted a story this afternoon and here I am cranking out the next one? Will wonders never cease!</p><p>In case you are wondering about both the title and the summary, let me give you this little hint. I googled the nine muses of Ancient Greece and my imagination ran wild and produced nine possible AU’s. Unfortunately the Greeks liked their pantheon complicated and matching muse and plot idea wasn't always a 100% fit, but I promise you there will be a connection.</p><p>Lie back, think of Athens, and enjoy!! Kudos, comments and critique are always welcome :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ol>
<li><em>Clio (History)<br/>
</em></li>
</ol><p>The museum opens its doors each day at 9:00am without fail. Its entrance is located in a side-alley in the Old Quarter, just shady enough to make the queueing bearable when the heat becomes oppressive. Locals and tourists, pensioners and schoolkids, aficionados and amateurs alike are drawn in by the promise of a glimpse into the past. Antique sculptures, Baroque, Renaissance, some impressionists and a dash of pointillism, it’s all there – relics of times gone by and yet ageless in the soft sunlight from the abat-jours. What entices the crowds most of all is located on the second floor, in a small room overlooking the campo. A portrait, no bigger than 20x20 centimetres, hanging in a simple wooden frame.</p><p><em>Portrait of a Man</em> is its title.</p><p>Over the years, it has become known as <em>The Golden One, </em>due to the radiant glow that falls on the model’s face, catching on a single golden earring he wears. The light catches on a sculpted cheekbone, throwing it into sharp relief. The rest of the painting was done in muted browns. The painter has left their initials in the right-hand corner in spidery-elegant letters. <em>A.d.F. </em>Art historians have dated it to early Baroque and assume the painter was a man, due to the obvious literacy and a familiarity with painting techniques that could have been obtained only through rigorous study with a master, which had been only possible for men. Nothing else is known, neither about the painter nor about his model.</p><p>Who were they? How did they know each other?</p><p>The longer you sit there in the cool room, gazing upon the face of someone long dead (did he ever exist), the more obvious it seems to you: The man’s soft features, illuminated beautifully. His eyes, big and focused on something (or someone) to his right, with a vulnerable, uncertain expression. A strong nose, not too large but leaving no room for femininity in this carefully-painted countenance. Plush, red lips. Finally, close-cropped dark hair, a few tendrils falling onto the model’s forehead, each drawn with painstaking precision. A contrast to the man’s clothes and the background, kept in muted tones and broader brushstrokes.</p><p>Whoever A.d.F. was, he painted this man with the care of a lover intent on immortalising his beloved.</p><p>You leaf through the brochure in your hands. <em>Portrait of an unknown man by an unknown master, </em>is all it says, <em>possibly a commission from a lesser noble or a friend of the artist. </em>You shake your head. There is none so blind as those who will not see, you think, and stand up. Taking one last glance over your shoulder, you leave the room. The museum is filled with a strangely serene atmosphere, no other visitors around and no hushed chatter, and you smile. Perhaps it’s just as well that painter and model took their secrets to their graves. After all, the unknown fascinates us most.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Andrés, what are you doing over there? I’ve been sitting for hours, my arse is numb and I’m getting a crick in my neck!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The painter chuckles quietly, looking up from his canvas and over the easel. His model is fidgeting, looking less than pleased.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Come on, Martín, just a little while longer. The light is perfect and I don’t want to lose this moment. It throws beautiful shadows across your cheekbones.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s true. Andrés is sure that this portrait will turn out to be one of his best yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What makes you think those fancy folks would be interested in my cheekbones? I’m just a ruffian, and your family has been giving you enough grief for spending time with me already. There’s no way a portrait of mine would impress anyone.”</em>
</p><p><em>Andrés sighs. His younger brother, prim and proper as they come, has voiced his concern about ‘keeping the wrong company’ and the extended family have dragged him to all these banquets in hopes of marrying him off to a simpering young do</em> <em>ñ</em> <em>a. He's not interested. He is worried about these developments, though, but never as worried as he is about Martín’s lack of self-worth.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Martín, cariño, I am a marvellous painter and as such my work will receive its due admiration. However,” he pauses, looking at his model until he is sure that Martín is looking right back, “even if nobody else in the whole world saw this portrait of yours, I will know that it exists, and that, God willing, somebody else will find it and perceive the same beauty that I see in you today.”</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Euterpe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello my dears, thank you for the clicks, kudos and comments on the first chapter :) I'm super happy the slightly pretentious title didn't scare everyone off!!</p><p>Without further ado, here comes muse number two!</p><p>P.S: In case you were wondering, the RCO is the eponymous ensemble of the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam's principal opera house. For a taste of their versatility, check out their collaboration with Fink here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvsfRSm9Au4</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>2. Euterpe (Music)</em>
</p><p>As anyone with some musical knowledge will tell you, some of humankind’s most beautiful compositions were written for an orchestra – a philharmonic orchestra – as the perfect combination of different families of instruments. As they will probably further tell you, the guitar, perhaps the most popular instrument to be taught to children besides the piano, is <em>not </em>part of an orchestra. Throughout the centuries, the guitar has remained more of a solo instrument, an accompaniment for guest performances. In Martín’s opinion, that’s both a shame and a blessing. Firstly, he thinks it’s damnably ignorant to permanently exclude a family of instruments, just because there aren’t that many fitting compositions. On the other hand, it’s a blessing because <em>if </em>you attempt to become a classical guitarist and you’re <em>really </em>talented, well, it’s easier for you to make a name for yourself.</p><p>And Martín Berrote is really, <em>really </em>talented.</p><p>He grew up listening to milonga and tango, and by the time he was ten he could outplay most of the professional <em>guitarristas </em>in his <em>barrio. </em>A collection set up by family and friends enabled him to try out for the National Arts Fund’s scholarship programme, which he <em>won, </em>and he became one of the first Argentine pupils at the Juilliard School in New York. Martín still remembers what it was like setting foot onto campus for the first time: The buildings of Lincoln Center, the sounds of music and laughter heard everywhere….  Music was his ticket out of a dull life full of hard labour and disappointed hopes, and he’ll be forever grateful and happy that he has been blessed enough to earn money doing what he loves. That <em>doesn’t </em>mean, however, that he’ll be <em>humble </em>and let anyone disparage his skills. Least of all that hoity-toity <em>gallego </em>bastard of a conductor Andrés de Fonollosa.</p><p>Fonollosa with his sensibilities about classical music.</p><p>
  <em>Señor Berrote, there is a reason why the guitar is not part of a philharmonic orchestra, and just because Principal Marquina has saddled me with you as a soloist, I will not compromise on any point regarding the selection of compositions. </em>
</p><p>Fonollosa with his insistence on structure, and order, and everything being perfect right down to the last bar.</p><p>
  <em>No, we’ll go back and do it again right from the top, Señor Berrote, you cannot go off on a solo just because you felt like it. </em>
</p><p><em>Fuck that shit, </em>Martín thinks. He <em>can </em>play at sight and hit each note perfectly, that’s not the issue, he just <em>doesn’t</em>. He doesn’t deal in technique, he deals in emotions.</p><p>Martín hates Fonollosa’s guts.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t start out that way, of course. Martín had landed a gig as a guest soloist with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra in the Netherlands, and he was ecstatic about it. One season of playing the music he loved with one of Europe’s most prestigious orchestras, known for their daring collaborations with less traditional musicians. A season on the Old Continent and a chance to take a bit of a breather from his hectic touring schedule, and indulge himself with some traveling and sightseeing in between concerts. Not even the principal conductor breaking his arm in three places could dampen Martín’s spirits, because this meant that the assistant conductor would take his place, and that was none other than Andrés de Fonollosa. The man had a reputation to be prickly, but then again, no genius had ever been known to be placid. Besides, Fonollosa’s work was always spectacular, and Martín had heard accounts that the musicians of the RCO had positively begged the man to stay with them, instead of accepting the post of principal conductor at St. Martin in the Fields. So, Martín reasoned, if a man inspired this much loyalty in spite of his eccentricities, he surely could have a productive work relationship with him. <em>Oh, </em>how wrong he had been.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Where to start?</p><p>On their first day of forced co-existence, Fonollosa had dismissed Martín and told him to go to Hall 2 if he was interested in attending a masterclass, as if Martín wasn't the one giving masterclasses instead of attending them. Roughly a week after, while in discussions about the pieces they were going to perform, Fonollosa said, <em>I don’t understand your complaints, Berrote, Rodrigo is the finest an unfortunate guitarist could ever play. </em>Considering the fact that Brazil had given the world Heitor Villa-Lobos, those were fighting words, and Martín didn’t hesitate to educate the Spaniard about South American musical traditions and the dangers of a narrow neo-colonial mindset. Fonollosa not showing up for rehearsal about a month later was the final straw. Afterwards, when they were packing up, and Martín had asked the long-suffering concertmaster how on earth he put up with his mercurial conductor, Mirko had just shrugged. <em>He’s a genius and we trust him to get us to wherever we need to be in order to make the concert unforgettable. </em>Leaning in, the violinist had given Martín a more private take on the situation. <em>I guess Fonollosa’s had yet another meeting with his lawyer. Wife number five is divorcing him, you know. And the marriage didn’t even last two months. </em>Well. Martín left that particular rehearsal feeling no small amount of schadenfreude. 

Ever since, whenever Fonollosa gets on his nerves, Martín reminds himself that the bastard may think he’s hot shit, but his wives still keep leaving, and it’s <em>okay, </em>he’s got thick skin and he <em>really </em>wants to have a successful season with the RCO. Today, for example, he needs all the positivity he can get while playing that <em>stupid</em> Concierto de Aranjuez, possibly one of the most overrated and overplayed pieces of all time, and Fonollosa is adamant on it being on the setlist. Stupid, <em>infuriating</em> man with his superciliousness and that horrible smirk on his plush lips, those damnably dextrous hands of his waving about with the speed of the <em>allegro con spirito</em>, those calculating eyes of his possessed by a spark only music can bring out and Martín just wants to rip off the tie Fonollosa insists on wearing and <em>shove it down his throat</em>. With the last notes played, the music fades away, and Martín, shaken out of his focus, looks up at the conductor, standing there all sweaty and flushed, and, well, it’s possible that Martín might want to shove something else down Fonollosa’s throat, too. It’s just his luck that his bête noir has to be so impossibly attractive.</p><p>“Señor Berrote, if you’d be so kind to drop by my office as soon as you’re packed.”</p><p>The words may sound polite, but it’s definitely not a request. <em>Great, </em>Martín thinks, instead of getting out of here early, it seems like he’ll be subjected to yet another lecture, as if he was a naughty pupil and not a professional. Still, Fonollosa <em>is </em>the conductor in charge and he has a lot of sway over the board. Unless Martín doesn’t want to get the boot, he has to at least appear to follow the man’s instructions. Once the office door is closed behind them, the air inside the room immediately becomes stifling, and Martín feels the unsettling instinct to leave again, to say something, <em>anything. </em>But no, Fonollosa wanted him here, so it’s up to him to start the conversation. The man in question is sat behind his desk, chin resting on steepled fingers, regarding him closely. <em>This is what the amoeba underneath a microscope must feel like, </em>Martín thinks.</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Fonollosa sits up straight.</p><p>“So, Señor Berrote, I called you to my office because your performance this afternoon warranted a little chat, don’t you think?”</p><p>Before Martín can bristle at the implication of <em>being called anywhere</em>, Fonollosa continues.</p><p>“Tell me, why are you incapable of listening to my instructions? Of submitting to my lead as the conductor? Is it your Argentinian pride getting in the way, or do you think this is all beneath you, lone wolf of a soloist that you are?”</p><p>That’s it. Martín’s <em>had it, </em>and the blatant dig against his Latin American roots is just the last straw that finally makes him lose his cool.</p><p>“It takes one to know one, Maestro de Fonollosa, doesn’t it? Tell <em>me, </em>why did you become a conductor in the first place if you’re stifling the creativity of your musicians. No, wait, let me see…you probably fancied yourself to be the Karajan of the 2000s, living for the aesthetic of the genius alone on the stand, with us all at your beck and call? Your job is to <em>conduct, </em>not to <em>command. </em>We all have our different styles and it’s your job to make sure we gel, but all you do is trying to make me fit your mould of classical <em>Spanish </em>guitarists. Well, <em>I’m not one of them.”</em></p><p>Martín is breathing hard, voice having grown louder and louder throughout his rant. On the other side of the desk Fonollosa is staring at him with widened eyes, his lips pressed tightly together. Certain that he’s blown it all, Martín deflates.</p><p>“I’d follow your lead, like any musician would, if only you trusted me to get the job done while still playing like <em>me, </em>but you <em>don’t. </em>You’ve never trusted me, you think I’m ruining your orchestra, you’ve been completely antagonistic from the start, and you’re trying to make it look like it’s all on me.”</p><p>Martín bites his lip, all of his anger evaporated and replaced with resignation. He watches as Fonollosa gets up and walks to the window overlooking the Museumplein. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his fancy suit pants, then lifts the right one to run it through his hair in an agitated gesture. Martín waits for the final dismissal, but what he gets, he couldn’t have anticipated in a million years.</p><p>“I do trust you. I <em>do</em>. Otherwise I wouldn’t have put up with you at all. But your style is so different from what this ensemble is used to, and I…well.”</p><p>Fonollosa trails off. Clicks his tongue, seeming almost frustrated with himself. Looks out the window again. Turns and looks Martín squarely in the eye.</p><p>“I find it unexpectedly difficult to handle your, ah, passions.”</p><p>
  <em>Wait, WHAT?</em>
</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Later, Martín is at a loss as to how he even got out of the Concertgebouw and home. He supposes he just mumbled a feeble goodbye and walked out, brain completely fried, trying to make sense of just what the hell Fonollosa had been telling him.</p><p>
  <em>I find it unexpectedly difficult to handle your passions.</em>
</p><p>That was a criticism, surely, implying that Martín had to be <em>handled</em> like an unruly child.</p><p>But.</p><p>Fonollosa wasn’t one to just blurt out anything, so his choice of words was telling. Even more so when Martín recalled the undercurrent of tension and agitation in the room, suggesting that something had thrown Fonollosa off-balance. Had Martín thrown him off-balance? Was that why the conductor had spoken of his passions<em>, </em>even though he could have used something else – antics, eccentricities, <em>temper </em>maybe<em>?</em> A less loaded word than <em>passion</em>. </p><p>No.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t be a fool, Martín. Fonollosa is a pretentious bastard and loves his own grandiloquence. One stupid word said in the heat of the moment doesn’t mean that he’s attracted to you in any way.</em>
</p><p>That’s what Martín has been telling himself for days, but it’s been no use. He can’t unhear the deep timbre of Fonollosa’s voice, can’t unsee the way those lovely long-fingered hands of his had tousled his hair (was it as soft to the touch as it looked?). The only way out of the running wheel of his thoughts is some decent distraction, so he and Mirko go out and get spectacularly hammered on their free Sunday night. The concertmaster has proven to be surprisingly good company – not at all stuck-up, but really funny, as well as progressively louder and brasher with the amount of beers he drinks. Contrastingly, he takes his duties seriously and is both strict taskmaster and protective mama bear with his musicians. Obviously, he also has the juiciest gossip, and because Martín is pathetic he steers the conversation towards their esteemed conductor.</p><p>“What’s his deal anyway? He’s got a stellar career, he’s got the looks, why is he always so insufferable?”</p><p>Mirko smirks.</p><p>“You seem awfully concerned about him. I’m assuming this is strictly a professional question, though?”</p><p>“Obviously”, Martín nods, “I mean, I <em>am </em>the soloist, aren’t I, so a good working relationship would be beneficial to all, right? And besides, I just want to know what’s going on. Maybe it’s me, maybe it isn’t.”</p><p>Mirko laughs, but then his expression sobers.</p><p>“It’s not you. I mean, yes, he hasn’t butted heads with the previous soloists quite so often, but he <em>has </em>been pretty on edge lately.”</p><p>Martín tries to look unaffected, like he isn’t hanging on to his friend’s every word, but Mirko just takes a swig of beer and continues.</p><p>“We’re all used to the beautiful women, the whirlwind affairs, his penchant for getting married after an average of six months. I mean, this is the second divorce I’m witnessing, but the bassoonist from Marseille has been part of the ensemble longer and he says the pattern is always the same. Fonollosa proposes to a girl if she’s got half a brain and they have a ridiculously over-the-top wedding, but as soon as the lady demands he take a step back from the music it goes to shit. This time it happened way earlier, though. That was surprising.”</p><p>Despite his attempts to remain clear-headed, Martín feels a bit dejected after hearing about Fonollosa’s string of women. Still, he prompts Mirko to go on.</p><p>“What’s different this time?”</p><p>“Well, the last Mrs. De Fonollosa – Tatiana Gómez, you’ve probably heard of her – she’s an established soprano, so at least they had music in common, you know? She’s a genuinely nice lady, and they only married in April. But all of a sudden, he started burying himself in work, they’re never seen together anymore…it’s like he completely lost interest in her. And it happened right around the time our rehearsals with you started.”</p><p>Martín nearly chokes on his wine.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the following morning, Martín wakes up with a head full of cotton, feeling terribly hungover and more confused than he was before his conversation with Mirko. Nursing a glass of water and waiting for the aspirin to kick in, he lists the facts:</p>
<ol>
<li>Andrés de Fonollosa is a bastard.</li>
<li>He’s also the single most attractive man Martín has ever met.</li>
<li>If Mirko is to be trusted, something happened that made Fonollosa deviate from his usual pattern of serial matrimony.</li>
<li>That last meeting in Fonollosa’s office was charged with a very weird atmosphere and didn’t unfold as Martín expected. At all.</li>
</ol><p>All things considered, Martín has reason to believe Mirko’s claim that the latent animosity is due to an upheaval in the conductor’s private life and not to any deficiencies on his part. However, it’s not enough to reasonably deduce that the man might harbour any attraction towards him.</p><p>
  <em>It’s completely unlikely, that’s what it is. I’m not what he wants, I’m the furthest from it, and I should stop with these foolish what-ifs.</em>
</p><p>The inconvenient side effect of foolish daydreams is that they’re persistent and no amount of reasoning will chase them away. Besides, Martín has always doggedly pursued the most unattainable goals, and Fonollosa is <em>definitely</em> unattainable.</p><p>With the fogginess and headache gone, Martín packs his bag. If there is any chance of their relationship changing, even if it’s just towards something resembling friendship, Martín has to put <em>toda la carne al asador, </em>as they would say at home – he has to go all out. And since he communicates best through music, he’s going to swallow his pride today and show Fonollosa just what a pliable soloist he can be.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>After tuning and register rehearsal, the orchestra assembles for a complete run-through of Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, the crowd pleaser and centrepiece of their <em>Latin American Nights </em>concert series. From the tight set of Fonollosa’s jaw, Martín can guess that the conductor probably expects yet another day of disagreements. <em>Well, he’s in for a surprise.</em></p><p>A tiny heartbeat, Fonollosa gives the sign, and Martín starts strumming the opening chords of the <em>allegro con spirito, </em>a lively flamenco-style movement with wicked changes of tempo. He doesn’t look up once throughout the entire 37 minutes of the concierto, fully immersed in playing to a standard that not even the revered Paco de Lucía could have attained. It's perfect. Not a single wrong chord, not a single missed cue. There is no interruption, and in the corner of his eye Martín can see Fonollosa giving him these little <em>glances. </em>His face betrays nothing, but he’s <em>looking.<br/>
</em></p><p>
  <em>Gotcha.</em>
</p><p>Admittedly, he hasn’t really planned ahead as to what would happen once the perfect run-through is finished. Once last note has sounded, the ensemble starts drifting into smaller groups, chatting and packing up. Martín lingers, fiddling with his guitar, making plans for a dinner with Mirko and Ágata, the trombones’ register leader, but he doesn’t spare their conductor a glance – he’s done his absolute best and the ball is in Fonollosa’s court now.</p><p>
  <em>I’ll just hang around for a while, after all it wouldn’t do to sprint off as if hellhounds were at my heels.</em>
</p><p>Martín is just fixing a broken E string when somebody clears his throat a little hesitantly. He looks up – and his breath is nearly stolen away when he realises that somehow Fonollosa has stepped right into his bubble and he didn’t even notice. Now, the proximity makes his head spin.</p><p>
  <em>Please, please say something, do something, anything, because if I open my mouth now it’ll be so embarrassing.</em>
</p><p>For once, the universe listens to Martín Berrote.</p><p>Fonollosa lifts his hand, a pensive expression on his face, and fiddles with the guitar strap still thrown over Martín’s shoulder.</p><p>“That was an interesting rehearsal, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>It sounds noncommittal, just like a regular conversation starter between two colleagues, and Martín can already feel disappointment settling low in his stomach when –</p><p>Fonollosa lets the strap go and trails his fingers down Martín’s arm.</p><p>Those damnably elegant fingers caress Martín right down to the cuff of his dress shirt and tug slightly, and then Fonollosa looks him straight in the eye and says,</p><p>“You were mesmerising today, Martín.”</p><p>His voice is soft and low, like the soothing sound of a cello, and his eyes, <em>God his eyes. </em>Dark like the Ceylon rosewood of a violin, but warm and vibrating with an emotion Martín doesn’t dare to name.</p><p>“Andrés…”</p><p>It’s no more than a rough whisper and, perhaps a little too late, Martín realises that he isn’t even on first name terms with this devastating, captivating man, and yet it seems to have been the right thing to say, because Fonollosa, <em>no, Andrés, </em>is smiling at Martín.</p><p>He’s smiling like he never has before and Martín realises he is well and truly sunk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Terpsichore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Muse number three, and perhaps my favourite so far, just because I've had this rough idea in my mind forever.</p><p>The initial prompt was one of these tumblr posts that just randomly appear on your dash, in this case a shot by Annie Leibovitz (find it <a href="https://de.phaidon.com/agenda/photography/articles/2018/october/11/how-annie-leibovitz-learned-to-dance-with-mikhail-baryshnikov/">here</a>). Long story short, she was asked to photograph the famous Mikhail Baryshnikov's new company and spent some weeks with them to fully immerse herself in the environment. One day, down at the beach, Baryshnikov and his co-dancer Rob Besserer were practicing a lift, and thus the photo was made. I love it, because it captures both the power and stillness of dance so well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>3. Terpsichore (Dance)<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The bodies move in perfect sync, bending, twirling, leaping. A careful sequence of steps, of gestures. The dancers are sweating, muscles quivering under strain, but outwardly there’s not a hair out of place. In the midst of them, two men are circling each other like lions, coming ever closer, ready to lunge – only to gracefully jump away and lead their female partners around the edges of a stage in another breathtaking sequence.</p><p> </p><p>The performances of the <em>Compañía Nacional de Danza </em>are a riveting sight for anyone, and it’s a privilege that you, a portrait photographer by trade, have been asked to document the rehearsals and buildup towards their newest triumph, a two-hour celebration of the company’s 40th anniversary. <em>The Gold of Spain</em>, it’s supposed to be titled, and the artistic director and choreographer in charge have enthusiastically pitched it as a tour-de-force through not only the history of the company itself, but a harking back to the formation of Spanish dance culture as a whole. It’s pretty much guaranteed to be a hit, because there is no greater spectacle than watching the company’s lead male dancers vying for the attention of the audience.</p><p> </p><p>Andrés de Fonollosa, 39 years old, from Vigo in Galicia, is a dancer after the traditional mould. Trained in France and Russia, with a long stint at the famous Bolshoi theatre, citing Nurejev and Vladimir Vasiliev as his main influences. Tall and sinewy in stature, his movements are graceful and precise.<br/>
His counterpart, Martín Berrote from Buenos Aires and six years his junior, is a different kind of dancer altogether. After his formative years with the Mariinsky Ballet – quite ironically the big rival of the Bolshoi – he spent several years with the San Francisco Ballet, branching out into collaborations with smaller outfits such as the Lar Lubovitch Dance Company . The singularity of his style reveals his Latin American roots and a fondness for modern dance.</p><p> </p><p>Seemingly diametrically opposed, these two men nevertheless become more than just the sum of their parts when on stage together. Any performance is a jewel, a firework of eclecticism and creativity, stretching the limits of classical ballet.</p><p> </p><p>You’ve been with the company for weeks now, wanting to fully immerse yourself in the world of ballet and the beat of their daily lives. From the time they arrive at the company’s building it's stretching, company class, more stretching and perhaps some pointers from the choreographer, lunch, more rehearsal and individual workouts, leaving and coming back the next morning to do it all over again. Six to nine hours’ dancing each day, putting body and mind through their paces, and you’re really not surprised at the tension that’s in the air sometimes. Fonollosa and Berrote are professionals, yes, but they are also strong-willed, ambitious, <em>narcissistic</em> to a considerable degree and on any given day, their co-workers never know what they get. It’s possible that the entire rehearsal goes off without a hitch, Andrés and Martín opening up, letting each other in, chatting amiably about the finer points of the choreography in the breaks. On other days, nothing seems to work out as planned, and they start needling each other about everything from a perceived lack of dexterity to the history of ballet as a whole – on those days they seem to be proxies for the neverending artistic feud between the Bolshoi and Mariinsky ballets. Even though you’ve been commissioned to capture <em>everything, </em>you don’t want to be invasive, shooting only at rehearsals and when they’re in conversation about the performance. During the brief periods of downtime, when the exhaustion is visible in their faces, you try to leave them alone.</p><p> </p><p>After roughly two months, the artistic director is confident that the ensemble has the choreography sufficiently memorised, and proposes a change of scenery: A working retreat in the North as a community-building exercise and a chance to escape the summer heat – and you’re tagging along to capture the ensemble in all environments and all moods. Well. They’ve gotten used to your presence and so far, there have been no grumblings, so you’re hopeful they won’t mind having a photographer at the communal breakfast table in Oviedo.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The retreat goes even better than expected, at least for your work. You spend almost the whole day either with the ensemble or a smaller group of dancers, and they welcome you into their midst, sharing stories and laughter.</p><p> </p><p>You learn that Ágata is a devoted mother to her son Axel and her adopted daughter Ibiza, that her husband is a welder and that she loves him to death, despite or maybe just because he has no connection to the world of fine arts. Daniel is the son of Agustín, the lovely stage hand, and he happens to be a passable singer, often entertaining the others with his traditional folk songs. Silene and Ánibal, the newbie in the company, are having an affair and you dread what the inevitable breakup will do to the highly temperamental ballerina. Smashed dressing room mirrors and a dramatic departure to another company seem entirely plausible. Surprisingly for two people so different, Andrés and Martín seem to get on well enough. They don’t spend an excessive amount of time together and their conversations can be weird to the point that nobody but them seems to understand a thing (something about flooding vaults and dolphins), but just the other day you saw Andrés laugh at something Martín said – a real belly laugh, completely unrestrained and very rare for him.</p><p> </p><p>The altogether more relaxed atmosphere affects the rehearsals as well – everybody’s still focused, of course, but observing them seems almost dreamlike to you, the dancers paying less attention to the steps (which they have memorized perfectly anyway) and devoting themselves more to the feelings they want to transport. Especially Andrés and Martín seem to completely drop their guard when they’re performing, moving effortlessly in each other’s personal space and not hesitating to touch. You don’t know much about dancing let alone the underlying thought processes of the dancers, but you can’t help but think that they must be <em>very </em>comfortable with each other as well as confident in their own skin, because sometimes their lips aren’t even a hair’s breadth apart and they rarely wear more than shorts and maybe a tank top. Maybe the whole atmosphere and the intensity is affecting you more than the dancers, because the tension at rehearsals seems to have ratcheted up and become almost <em>sexual – </em>there’s a static in the air and nobody is able to look away when Andrés and Martín are practising their modern adaptation of a <em>pas de deux</em>. Your own fascination with the choreography and the two dancers only grows when you observe how much effort the jumps and lifts must cause them, and yet their touches are gentle and careful, even when the grip has to be strong.</p><p> </p><p>In short, it’s great fodder for your camera lens, and you’re more than certain that you’re going to delight the company director with the result of your work. Your rehearsal stills capture the dancers in all their beauty as well as the effort they put into their work, and the two weeks at the retreat have given you the opportunity to delve deeper into the persons underneath the stage make-up and the glamorous costumes.</p><p> </p><p>On the penultimate day, you make your way to the rehearsal space early, because you hope to get a few more candid shots: There is this switch of personality that occurs whenever a dancer is gearing up, getting into the right headspace, almost like an internal pep talk made visible in minuscule shifts of expression, and you’d dearly like to capture it. A sublime contrast between the profane and the professional, the everyday and the exquisite, and it would be the jewel of your collection.</p><p>The hall is almost empty. A few juniors practice with the barre on one end. At the other end, Andrés and Martín are warming up.</p><p> </p><p>You observe them helping each other with their stretches, Martín guiding Andrés gently through some of the more strenuous poses while Andrés carefully massages a sore spot on Martín’s thigh that you know has been cause for some concern – the younger man is the base in the duo’s lifts and no matter how lithe Andrés’ build is, he’s still no lightweight and Martín has to display considerable strength and precision to pull off such a complicated figure. Evidently, Andrés is worried still, because he leans in further, brows furrowed. You’re too far away to understand what they’re saying exactly, but you catch snippets of <em>-need to be more careful with your body </em>and <em>-they can’t afford to kick you out why would you even think that. </em>Huh. Has Martín been pushing himself overly hard because he thinks he will lose his spot in the ensemble if he doesn’t perform as expected? Sure, ballet can be a cutthroat business and this could happen to many dancers, but Martín Berrote is on such an elevated level that even the most cantankerous director would allow him some recovery time. His presence can make all the difference and turn an ordinary choreography into something special, you’ve seen it with your own eyes, and it seems so out of character for this usually exuberant and confident man to show any insecurity. But still, there it is, painfully visible in the way Martín bites his lower lip and won’t look Andrés in the eye. <em>-longer and your brother is the AD, what would he say, </em>Martín murmurs. Andrés is shaking his head and now he frames Martín’s face in his hands. <em>-can’t compare</em>…- <em>a shadow to what we are together…-my other half, </em>Andrés is saying intently.</p><p> </p><p>This is the point where you quickly get up. You came here to get a few more candids, but this is clearly a private moment, and you won’t intrude on a moment where somebody is so vulnerable. Besides, with the way those two were focused on each other, you can’t shake the feeling that this was about far more than just a dance routine.  </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>After the retreat, the agreed-upon field work period is over and you head back to your studio. It takes time to develop the pictures to your satisfaction, and you have to start making a first selection of the ones you’ll show the clients. The directors want not only a high-gloss book, but also an exhibition for the lobby. It’s a lot of work, so the next time you see the ensemble again is on premiere night. Underneath the polished exterior, the dancers are brimming with excitement and they greet you with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Ágata hugs you and thanks you for <em>making us all look fucking fantastic, even Helsinki that big Serbian bear.</em> Ánibal is grinning excitedly (he’s clearly dealing better with the split than Silene who apparently ran offstage in tears just three days ago and didn’t you suspect all along they were going to fuck it up). Andrés doesn’t pay you any attention but Martín, by his side as always, gives you a half-smile and a nod. You smile back, happy to have been allowed into their band of brothers and sisters for a few weeks, and then the lights go down and you settle into your spot in the wings.</p><p> </p><p>It’s rare that a premiere goes off without a hitch at all, even for a world-class ensemble, but to the layman’s eye (or laywoman, in your case), everything is spectacular – or at least the pure visuals of close to fifty dancers telling a story with their bodies are. The audience are positively enraptured by Andrés’ and Martín’s interpretation of the<em> pas de deux, </em>and Martín carrying his partner effortlessly across the stage is the embodiment of strength and poise.</p><p> </p><p>Two and a half hours go by in a flash, and you’re surprised to hear the applause of the audience, as they cheer and get to their feet for a standing ovation. Andrés and Martín stand centre stage, bowing gracefully, chests still heaving with rapid breaths. As they step aside to make room for the other soloists, you can see that Andrés hasn’t let go of Martín’s hand. Instead, he pulls the other man closer, and whispers something into his ear that makes Martín blush, looking to the ground bashfully. His blush only deepens when the audience raise their voices, clamouring to see them once again. Andrés leads them out, still hand in hand, they bow again and straighten, leaning into each other slightly and then – Andrés tilts his head <em>just so </em>and kisses Martín, right there, in front of everyone. It’s barely more than a brush of lips, but you remember the jumbled bits of conversation from a few weeks ago, and you realise this is a declaration. An <em>I’m with you. I love you. I’ll never leave and I’ll show you until you believe in your own radiance. </em></p><p> </p><p><em>My other half, </em>indeed.</p><p> </p><p>And you’re glad that you didn’t take that picture of them a couple weeks ago, because taking one here when they’re flushed and happy and unburdened, is far better.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Urania</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh my, THANK YOU to everyone who left kudos and especially commented - DorMarunt, Pia_Pia, 64_words, I'm lovingly looking at you here . I'm the happiest girl in the world knowing that my crazy ideas are appreciated.</p><p>Here comes the next muse, and this time my inner space nerd came out. Astrophotography is fascinating but damned difficult so I didn't go into too much detail, but any objects I describe can indeed be observed in the northern hemisphere with a (good) amateur telescope. Also, if you want to be wowed, just google the names of the star clusters and galaxies, most of them have been captured by Hubble and/or NASA. (Not that anyone wants to know, my personal favourite is 30 Doradus in the Tarantula nebula, but that's in the southern hemisphere and not fit for this chapter...)</p><p>Btw updates might take a bit longer for the next chapters because I still need to fully flesh them out, but I'll try to stick to my once-per-week schedule regardless ;)</p><p>Hope you enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>4. Urania (Astronomy)</em>
</p><p>Being a multimillionaire with more money than you can burn sure is a struggle, but, you know, Andrés gets by. He’s the heir of the family title (that’s <em>Don</em> de Fonollosa for you, thanks) and the family fortune, and just like his ancestors, he knows both how to accumulate money and how to spend it. He’s just a little more refined than the Middle Age dons, preferring to be a patron for the arts instead of organising big game hunting trips. As is befitting for a member of Spain’s nobility, he’s also very well connected, and his longstanding acquaintance with the dean of the university ensures that he always has something to direct financial support towards, whether it’s a multipurpose art centre or simply a new professorship for Philosophy and Art Theory. He’s always happy to part with a few hundreds of thousands to foster talent and culture, and it makes him feel good about <em>himself</em> as well. After all, after five divorces and a somewhat strained relationship with his bore of a younger brother, even Andrés with his inbred sense of superiority has to admit that his personal life is in shambles. Not that he’d admit that to anyone, no. He has to <em>represent</em>, and do it with style, because he knows that there are many, many eyes on him. So, yes, he’ll gladly pay for whatever the university or the museum need, because it ensures him the adulation of the populace (even if nobody else will fawn over him) and that’s the fuel his ego needs.</p><p>One day, at their customary monthly lunch, Dean Ramos approaches him with an unusual topic.</p><p>“Well, Don Andrés, I know you’re quite the art connoisseur, and we’re extremely grateful for your support, of course, but…”</p><p>Andrés isn’t a man who deals well with “buts” of any kind. Nevertheless, he’s a man with principles and as such he will not treat a man with Ramos’ status in the community as he would any other supplicant.</p><p>“Well, Agustín? What is it? You know there’s a time and a place for buttering people up, but not when I can sense an inconvenient proposition from a mile off.”</p><p>To his credit, the dean cracks a weak smile and doesn’t look too frightened. Well. They <em>have</em> been dealing with each other for a very long time.</p><p>“It’s nothing inconvenient, don’t worry, it’s merely…unusual. I know you prefer supporting the Faculty of Arts and Humanities, since that’s where your interests lie, but I was wondering whether you’d consider lending some assistance to another, equally worthy undertaking?”</p><p>“Such as?”</p><p>“Such as the Faculty of Natural Sciences, more specifically the Department of Physics. Did you hear that two of our lecturers were very successful lately? A Chambliss for Astronomical Writing and a Tycho Brahe – well, two very important awards, anyway. And they did all their research in our woefully outdated observatory, and that simply cannot continue, not if we don’t want to lose them.”</p><p>Andrés looks at Ramos with unconcealed surprise.</p><p>
  <em>I beg your pardon.</em>
</p><p>“You want me to sponsor a new observatory?”</p><p>The dean has the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly in his chair.</p><p>“Like I said, I know where your interests lie, but this is something we could really use help with. And maybe if you just considered this project as a way to make a reputation for yourself in, um, new circles?”</p><p>It’s a blatant attempt at flattery and Andrés is unimpressed.</p><p>“I’m sure your researchers are brave little scientists who go where nobody has gone before, and they surely deserve their prizes, but you know me, Agustín. I find all this stuff about meteors and extraterrestrial life and quantum this-and-that quite dull. It’s all about numbers, so predictable.”</p><p>Under normal circumstances, such a dressing-down, even if delivered in a cool and unaffected voice, would be enough to shut anyone up, but Andrés seems to have underestimated the dean’s determination. Desperation, more like.</p><p>“Oh, if that’s your main objection…what if I made you change your mind about astrophysics being dull? That is to say – not me, personally, but I have just the man for the job.”</p><p>Andrés feels exasperation creep up on him, and he knows he has to wrap this up before his mood worsens further and the whole day is ruined.</p><p>“So, you’re saying, what? That you’ll get one of your soldiers for science to give me a lecture? ‘Introduction to Astrophysics for Aesthetes’”?</p><p>Ramos actually chuckles.</p><p>“No, no, not that. But maybe you’d be willing to listen to one of the geniuses in his field talk about the wonders of the universe over a nice dinner, say, at<em> El Jardín?</em> I have a gift voucher that I’d be willing to part with.”</p><p>Blast. The man isn’t playing fair. <em>El Jardín</em> is one of Andrés’ favourite restaurants, and it’s so popular that not even he gets a table all the time. Hmph. It seems like there is no way out of this without losing face.</p><p>“Very well. I’ll have that dinner, for our old acquaintance’s sake, but I’m warning you, Agustín. If this man is a number-crunching bore, I <em>will</em> walk out of there. I am not going to subject myself to an evening of insufferable tedium. And you are too eager to get my support for whatever project you have next, so you’re not going to give me any grief about it either.”</p><p>That last part of Andrés rant may have sounded a little petulant, but Ramos doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He just grins and says,</p><p>“That sounds reasonable. I’ll have my assistant set it up and mail you with the details.”</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Exactly a week later, Andrés finds himself seated at a lovely corner table at El Jardín. Spacious, but still secluded enough to allow for a decent conversation. It’s a spot he would consider booking for a date, but no, he’s supposed to spend his evening with a scientist.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Estimado Don de Fonollosa,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You have a table for two at 8pm under the dean’s name. Also, Señor Ramos has asked me to tell you that your companion for the evening is called Professor Martín Berrote, and you are to treat him like you would the dean himself, because, and I quote “He is a brilliant man and not a lackey”.</em><br/>
<em>Have a pleasant evening.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Saludos cordiales,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Julia Cuesta</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>Evidently, the dean and his smart-arse assistant need a reminder of who they’re dealing with, and that the heir of the Fonollosa title is not to be bossed around.</p><p>Except that sometimes he has his arm twisted by a formidable opponent, otherwise Andrés wouldn’t be sitting here, perusing the wine list and waiting impatiently for this Professor Berrote to arrive. He’s already five minutes late.</p><p>But speak of the devil, the door opens and in walks a slightly ruffled-looking man. Mid-forties, Andrés estimates, shorter than himself (Andrés has inherited the imposing countenance of his forbears), and with an appalling dress sense. <em>Who would wear jeans for a dinner with a sort-of business partner?</em></p><p>The hostess directs the man towards the corner table, and Andrés gets up to greet him. <em>One of us has to set an example for good manners here.</em></p><p>“Professor Berrote, I presume. Andrés de Fonollosa.”</p><p>The man gives him a warm and earnest smile, and shakes his hand firmly.</p><p>“Martín Berrote, yes, although Martín will suffice. I’m terribly sorry for my tardiness, Señor de Fonollosa, but we have a comet sighting scheduled for tonight, so I had to make arrangements. The Kohoutek waits for no man.”</p><p>Andrés doesn’t pretend to understand any of this and sits back down.</p><p>“Well, Martín, you must call me Andrés. I have taken the liberty of ordering a Zárate Caiño Tinto for starters, I hope you don’t mind.”</p><p>To his surprise, Berrote replies smoothly, “Not at all. I prefer a Catena Zapata from Mendoza, but that may be the patriot in me speaking.”</p><p><em>Good</em>. At least the man isn’t entirely without culture, if Andrés’ subtle probing of his oenological knowledge didn’t make him stumble. They make idle conversation while they wait for their food to arrive, because there is no way Andrés will subject himself to science talk without proper sustenance. Sustenance being the wrong word, because he has ordered exquisite <em>alcachofas con gambas y almejas</em> and he intends to fully indulge in the decadence of eating fresh seafood in Madrid, hundreds of kilometres away from the coast.</p><p>Eventually though, he can’t postpone the inevitable any longer, so he cuts right to the chase.</p><p>“Well, Martín, as you probably know since our paths have never crossed before, this isn’t exactly a random evening of socialising. Dean Ramos wants a new observatory and he wants it badly, otherwise he wouldn’t have approached me about it.”</p><p>Irritatingly, Andrés usual modus operandi of indifference paired with caustic superiority doesn’t work, because Berrote grins, nods, and wipes his mouth (<em>with unusually generous lips for a man</em>, the ever-attentive artist part of Andrés brain supplies) on his napkin.</p><p>“Yes, I’m quite aware. I’m supposed to cajole a million quid out of you by wowing you with astrophysics, and my persuasiveness, of course.”</p><p>Somehow, the man seems to treat it like a joke, because there’s a decidedly amused glimmer in his eyes and he doesn’t sound deferential, let alone <em>pleading</em>, not at all.  Andrés doesn’t understand the man’s approach, if there even is one.</p><p>“And you, what, decided just not to bother?”</p><p>“Wrong, but it would be quite tasteless to just ask you for the money, wouldn’t it? And I get enough self-congratulatory buffoons at the conferences I attend each year, so I’m not going to launch into an unprompted keynote about the splendours of my work – warranted though it may be. No, <em>Don Andrés</em>.”</p><p>The man clearly has no idea about how to flatter properly, because not only is he extremely confident, but he also manages to imbue Andrés’ title with a teasing note that’s quite decidedly inappropriate. Berrote leans back in his chair and fixes Andrés with an appraising glance.</p><p>“I thought I’d start the business part of the evening with this: Is there anything you would like to know about the observatory, our research and the part we play in deciphering the artistry of the universe?”</p><p>Andrés has a sneaking suspicion this move is straight out of the handbook for science-to-public communication, but he’s more focused on how Martín has chosen to describe his work by using the term <em>artistry</em>. Well. Martín has proven to be tolerable company so far, so he decides to play along.</p><p>“If you want to play Twenty Questions, sure. I believe you owe me a proper explanation for your tardiness, so tell me, what was all that about with that comet sighting?”</p><p>Ten minutes later, Andrés knows that there are two comets called Kohoutek, a long-period and a short-period one, and it’s the latter one that delayed Martín. It was scheduled to make its next appearance in 2014 but it didn’t happen, so this sighting after the comet had already been declared lost – hence the letter D in its designation 75D/Kohoutek – has a lot of astrophysicists in a tizzy. Andrés has also learned about trajectories and the apsides of orbits and trans-Neptunian objects, and he <em>hasn’t</em> <em>fallen asleep</em>. How intriguing. </p><p>Martín has a way with words that allows him to explain complex scientific facts in an entertaining and understandable manner, and Andrés suspects he has the rare ability to really connect with an audience at one of those conferences he mentioned. Also, Martín is positively vibrating with excitement when he gets to talk about his profession – no, his <em>vocation</em> – and it puts a rosy flush in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes that Andrés can’t help but find <em>very</em> pleasing to look at. Martín really is quite handsome, and Andrés is able to recognise beauty in every form, even though it has been a while since a man last captured his attention in any way.</p><p>
  <em>Not since that brief dalliance with the Italian pretty boy at Sergio’s wedding and while he may have looked like Michelangelo’s David, he really should have kept his mouth shut at all times.</em>
</p><p>Yes. It’s been a while, and Andrés has never met a man (<em>or woman, apparently</em>) who was able to provoke more in him than flash-in-the-pan desire. But this one is different. This one, Andrés doesn’t want to let go so easily.</p><p>They finish their dinner with conversation flowing naturally. After dessert and that bottle of Catena Zapata that Martín mentioned, there is no reason to linger any longer. Andrés pays with the gift voucher; Martín observes him with a grin.</p><p>“Well, Don de Fonollosa”, he begins, looking at Andrés from below his eyelashes, “can I report to my boss tomorrow and tell him you’ll sponsor the university’s new observatory, to your own undying glory?”</p><p>
  <em>The little shit.</em>
</p><p>Andrés is <em>charmed</em>. And he decides then and there that he’ll go out with the man again, and again, until he either gets bored or…well, he has no idea what the alternative would be, since he only ever had female partners, but if Martín is involved it’s bound to be a stimulating experience.</p><p>“I don’t know, <em>Professor Berrote</em>. We’ve had a very pleasant evening and you’ve certainly proven that you can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk? I’ve yet to see any of the – how did you put it – splendours of your work.”</p><p>It’s definitely a gamble, because Andrés doesn’t know anything about Martín’s own…inclinations. Chances are that all he’ll get is an invite to the research facility – another opportunity to spend time with the man, sure, but not exactly what Andrés is hoping for. Thankfully though, the universe tends to listen to him at crucial times.</p><p>“Oh, you want to see the researcher in his natural environment, is that it? Want to watch me handle spectrographs and telescopes?”</p><p>
  <em>Not really, but if that’s what you want to give me…</em>
</p><p>But Martín’s tone has been teasing, and there is something in his eyes, softer than the broad grin on his face.</p><p>“Well, alright, if you want to see an astrophysicist in action, I’ll show you a good time.”</p><p>Martín says he’ll have to check some stuff first before they can meet up again, and so they exchange numbers before they call it a night. Andrés drives home and tries to review the evening’s events. He’s very well aware that Dean Ramos will be smug as all hell at their next lunch date, because he got Andrés to listen to a scientist – not to mention that he will fund the observatory, too, because even though he hasn’t said yes so far, he would have already said no if he truly didn’t want to. By all indications, Ramos has won this little battle and Andrés should be displeased, but he <em>isn’t</em>. </p><p>He, Don Andrés de Fonollosa, has enjoyed this evening with Martín Berrote, and because the man in question is both extremely intelligent and very pleasing to look at, Andrés more than willing to continue their acquaintance, in whatever fashion Martín deems acceptable.</p><p>It should be a shock to the system, unexpected and unwelcome, upending carefully conceived and reinforced notions of love and life, but somehow it just feels like a puzzle piece fell into place. And since Andrés is a little buzzed off the wine, he decides that introspection will have to come later.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The dinner with Martín provokes a butterfly effect of subtle change in Andrés’ mind. Outwardly, he’s still the same but inwardly, his usual instinct of chasing the most beautiful woman in his immediate vicinity lies dormant. Nevertheless, life continues much the same as before. Andrés meets the important people of the area at luncheons and dinners, he attends a gala at the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza and hosts a fundraiser for the Royal Monastery of Santa María de Oia. All the while, he finds himself checking his phone from time to time, just to see if he has any missed calls or messages.</p><p>
  <em>And why not? It’s been a long while since there was anything truly fascinating to look forward to.</em>
</p><p>Martín <em>finally</em> contacts him six days later, when Andrés has nearly worked himself up to enough righteous indignation to call the man in turn, just to demand an explanation for the damnably long wait.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>From: Martín Berrote, 22:03</strong>
  </p>
  <p>If you’re still interested in seeing a scientist in their natural habitat, how about the day after tomorrow? Or night, I should say. Meet me at the campus gates at 6pm? And dress warmly.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>To: Martín Berrote, 22:20</strong>
  </p>
  <p>I’m not a man who has second thoughts.</p>
  <p>Thursday at 6pm is acceptable.</p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>---</p><p> </p><p>By the time Thursday rolls around, Andrés is feeling the buzz of anticipation underneath his skin and permeating his thoughts. Anytime he doesn’t find himself busy, his mind wanders to Martín’s text and what he could possibly have planned for the evening? He’s self-conscious enough to be aware that such behaviour is very atypical for him. If Sergio was around (and not holed up in his squalid country house in Toledo), he would have some snarky comment at hand, about how Andrés has set his sights on another toy to have fun with and discard. Or maybe about how he should put an end to all his nonsensical pursuits of art and pleasure, finally settle down with a nice girl and stop behaving as if the world were his oyster.</p><p>
  <em>And he’d be wrong on every single count.</em>
</p><p>At 6pm sharp, Andrés climbs out of his 190 SL Mercedes, wearing his favourite maroon coat over a soft and warm grey turtleneck and black pants. He’s chosen this particular outfit because it’s suitable for most of the activities an astrophysicist could plan, and also because the tailored fit of the coat as well as its colour make Andrés look absolutely striking. He may be venturing out of his usual bubble tonight, but he’ll do it in style.</p><p>Martín is waiting for him at the entrance, in jeans (<em>again</em>), a dark blue sweater and a battered-looking leather jacket. He’s even wearing boots, and has a backpack slung across his shoulder. They shake hands in greeting, lingering just a little while appraising the other.</p><p>“My, my, Professor, you look like you’re about to go on an outdoor skills trip. Whatever have you planned for tonight?”</p><p>Martín grins.</p><p>“Well, it might be exploring to you, isn’t attending garden parties the most you do outdoors? We’re taking my car, by the way, yours is much too fancy for the country roads.”</p><p>Evidently, Martín knows the value of a good build-up, because he still doesn’t give Andrés any pointers what to expect for tonight. Andrés has his suspicions, but he’s willing to play along, and crams himself into the passenger seat of Martín’s jeep. It’s far from pristine - mud splattered everywhere, a woolen blanket thrown haphazardly over the back seat, and several battered metal cases in the boot. Normally, he’d be protesting quite loudly at having to sit in such a car, but he has a feeling his companion for tonight would just snicker and not do anything about it.</p><p>They drive for nearly two hours, leaving Madrid well and truly behind. By the time Martín turns the car onto a dirt track on the outskirts of San Esteban del Valle, night has fallen. Martín stops the car at a little lookout in the hills and gestures for Andrés to get out.</p><p>“We’re here. Time to venture out into the great unknown.”</p><p>Andrés can’t stop himself from asking, “and where is ‘here’ exactly?”</p><p>“We’re on the fringes of the Sierra de Gredos. It’s pretty much the best spot for astronomical observation so close to Madrid, because there’s barely any light pollution.”</p><p>
  <em>Ah. So we’re here for some stargazing after all.</em>
</p><p>It’s a classic move, of course, but Andrés feels a little disappointed. After all, he’s taken some girls stargazing himself, explaining to them the (few) constellations he knows, complete with the ancient Greek legends as to how they came to be. It’s slightly uninspired. He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a heavy thud and sees that Martín has unloaded the metal boxes and is unpacking some intimidating-looking contraptions.</p><p>“What’s all this?”</p><p>“Tripod, telescope, cameras, laptop…it’s what I need to do my work out here. You don’t think I’ve dragged you out here to tell you some hackneyed tale about a hunter being immortalised by the goddess Artemis? That’s more your area of expertise I’d say. We <em>are</em> stargazing, but we’re doing it properly.”</p><p>Martín talks Andrés through his gear while setting up his professional equipment, preparing everything for a series of long-exposure images of his comet, and then gestures for Andrés to take a seat behind the second telescope. He rummages around in his backpack and produces a thermos and two mugs.</p><p>“Tea spiked with the best Caribbean rum and my own secret assortment of spices. Nothing better to get settled in for a night with the universe.”</p><p>Martín starts Andrés off slowly, letting him fiddle with the telescope and the moon first – normally Andrés doesn’t appreciate feeling out of his depth, but changing angles and selecting different oculars is a hands-on job that appeals to the artist in him. In fact, Martín’s explanations of how to obtain proper sharpness and magnification of the object under observation remind him a lot of choosing the perfect spot and technique to paint. It’s all about selecting a captivating vista and then using light, colour and composition to depict it to its utmost advantage. The parallels become even more obvious when Martín tells him how he sometimes spends an entire night out in the hills, trailing a far-away star or nebula, not doing much but utterly at peace. Andrés is very familiar with that feeling of tranquility; it’s what he feels when he’s out painting on his estate. It’s not a sense of being dwarfed by nature, no. Andrés has never felt insignificant, but in those moments, he feels calm, secure in the knowledge that there is no better place to be, nothing else to be done, nothing he is missing.</p><p>
  <em> Just like now.</em>
</p><p>Next, he finds Jupiter’s Red Spot and the Great Cluster Messier 13 in the constellation of Hercules, the latter being especially breathtaking. Martín is always ready to assist, watching him attentively. Seeing the elated smile that steals across Andrés’ lips at the sight of M13’s multi-hued brilliance, Martín asks,</p><p>“You prefer stars and nebulae to planets, am I right?”</p><p>Andrés nods. There’s just something about knowing that he is looking at something that’s billions of light years away and doesn’t even exist in this shape anymore by the time humans observe it. It’s almost incomprehensible and utterly fascinating.</p><p>“Then you best come over here for tonight’s highlight.”</p><p>Martín gets up from his chair to make room for Andrés, and adjusts his large telescope. Then he crouches down right next to Andrés and says,</p><p>“Look through the ocular now.”</p><p>Andrés leans in, at first seeing the usual silvery pinpricks of undefined celestial objects, but then – he gasps.</p><p>
  <em>A wide expanse of diffuse colour against the nothingness, gases forming reddish swirls, and in the middle a luminous off-white centre, interspersed with what must be thousands of stars.</em>
</p><p>Utterly lost in the moment, his being is reduced to just a few senses. The glory he is looking at, the warmth of Martín’s body next to him, and the soft murmur of his voice.</p><p>“This is Messier 17. The Omega nebula. Its mass is about 800 times more than our sun, and it’s one of the biggest star-forming regions of our galaxy. That’s why it’s so bright, you know? The radiation from all those young, hot stars causes the gases to shine. The red you’re seeing means there is sulphur, but there are also traces of oxygen and hydrogen. The gases actually hide more stars, there are so many that it’s impossible to ever find out their number.”</p><p>Andrés tears his gaze away from the ocular, wanting to ask a million questions or just say <em>something</em> to convey his amazement and wonder, but no words come out. It seems he doesn’t need to speak, anyway, because Martín is looking directly at him, hair ruffled by the slight breeze, a soft smile on his lips. The night sky is reflected in his eyes – <em>blue like the stars in Hercules</em> – and he is <em>so close</em>…</p><p>Andrés kisses him.</p><p>It’s nothing more than a brush of slightly cold, chapped lips against his, but he is instantly suffused by such warmth, it feels like there are a million electric particles coursing through his veins. The kiss is lingering, the soft pressure at once familiar, but eventually they part, each drawing a quiet, shaky breath.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Much, much later, the are sitting on Andrés’ sofa in front of the fireplace, leaning into each other once more, glasses of wine abandoned on the coffee table. They left soon after the kiss, driving back to Madrid in a comfortable silence that allowed them both to gather their thoughts. Driven by the crystal-clear realisation that he didn’t want this night to be over, Andrés had asked Martín back to his townhouse. Uncharacteristically, he’d found himself at a loss of words, still affected by everything that happened on the hilltop.<em> It’s not…I’m not…I don’t want to take advantage of you, Martín. I want you to stay</em>. Thankfully, Martín had understood instinctively, and had just grabbed his backpack and keys and followed Andrés to his car.</p><p>His palms drawing the other man closer, fingers trailing down a strong jaw, Andrés learns the multitude of feelings that having a man – no, <em>Martín</em> – so close provokes in him. His whole body is soft, yielding against Andrés, and yet he still gives as good as he gets, a warm silky tongue caressing Andrés’ lips, begging for entrance. It’s maddening in its intensity, and the faint taste of spiced tea with rum makes Andrés’ head spin. </p><p>When they separate, Martín huffs a quiet laugh. “What”, Andrés murmurs, unwilling to stop kissing him even for just a second. “Nothing,” Martín replies, “I just thought our acquaintance wasn’t based on the intent to socialise. Just a business meeting.”</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ah, the dinner, which seems to have been ages ago and not just a week.</em>
</p><p>How wrong Andrés was in thinking that anything between Martín and him could be parried down with the word “just”. There’s nothing ordinary about this at all, as his instincts told him after their first evening together.</p><p>“Right on just one count, Martín. Our dinner wasn’t for social purposes, and you’ll get your observatory if you want it. But what we have between us…it’s something else entirely. Something much more. Extraordinary, unique, wonderful.”</p><p>He could have said more, giving voice to the thoughts floating around in his head since he saw starlight reflected in Martín’s eyes, but he is interrupted by the man in question flinging his arms around Andrés’ neck, drawing him into a deep kiss.</p><p>“Are you certain?” Martín asks him, deliciously breathless. “It’s just…Dean Ramos was on my back for days and he talked you up a lot and then I met you and realised that there wasn’t anything to talk up, that you’re really…you, and I’m me, and you’re so out of my league you might as well belong to the Oort cloud.”</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Andrés doesn’t understand the analogy, but he gets the meaning.</p><p>
  <em>All the while he’s been sorting through his jumble of feelings, Martín has been attracted to him from the start.</em>
</p><p>Andrés smiles radiantly, <em>happily,</em> and draws Martín close again.</p><p>“Oh, Martín, now that’s simply not true. I wouldn’t go out with just anybody, let alone twice. And besides, you’re an astrophysicist, <em>cariño</em>, not even the stars are out of <em>your</em> reach.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Erato</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello again - guess I lied when I said the next update would take a while. I've gotten so much great feedback for this story that the words just keep pouring out!</p><p>Our new chapter deals with a classic of the arts – love poetry, of course. You’d think with so many love poems around this was an easy one to write – it wasn’t, because I spent a long time picking out something that fit my AU. In the end, I turned to one of my all-time favourites, Rupi Kaur, and put her words into Andrés’ mouth – largely because all the Richard Siken quotes were just too angsty, haha! Have fun discovering the references...</p><p>I also feel like I have to clarify one thing before anyone starts the chapter: I’m strongly against forced outings, and it’s not what I was going for. In my head at least, Martín is out but he doesn’t advertise his sexuality, much less does he acknowledge a relationship he still feels somewhat undeserving of. It’s about insecurity and lack of self-love, and what I wanted to show here is how a supporting partner can help you overcome this toxic mess of feelings. </p><p>I hope you enjoy this chapter :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>5. Erato (Love poetry)<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Breaking: Andrés de Fonollosa separates from socialite wife Tatiana Gómez</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Cannes Festival: The Hottest Contestants for the Palme d’Or</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>From Buenos Aires to the BAFTA’s: An In-Depth Look at Rising Star Martín Berrote</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Cannes during the festival season is a seething cauldron of glamour and gossip, an amphitheatre for art and passion as well as the baser instincts of the species called <em>social animal</em>. To see and be seen, that’s what it’s all about. If you happen to belong to that minority of film folk who don’t thrive on attention, it’s a very trying time – living under a magnifying glass for ten days, you do your job and attend press conferences and luncheons, only to return to your hotel room late at night, desperate for some peace and quiet.</p><p>Martín doesn’t know how to feel about it all. He knows he should be happy, because he’s managed to get out of his <em>barrio, </em>he’s worked his way to the very top of the Latin American film industry, and this movie is his big break on the European market. So many of his friends from the old days haven’t been this lucky, they still have to wait tables during the day in order to be able to work as actors in the evening. Martín himself has worked himself to the bone to get to where he is now, and he knows he should enjoy the spoils of all the labour…but perhaps his humble background is exactly the reason why he struggles with all the attention. For one, it’s very intrusive and past experiences in his youth have taught him the value of keeping his life private and not advertise who he is. Second, he can’t help but feel like it’s too good to be true – the first-class flights, the posh hotel rooms, adoring fans asking for his autograph, telling him how much they like his work in breathlessly excited voices, all of it. Sooner or later, he’ll have the rug pulled out from under him, because nothing lasts forever, and then he’ll be right back at the start, a nobody from a country no-one cares about. It’s a crippling insecurity that he has to work hard to overcome at every social gathering he has to attend, and it leaves him <em>exhausted</em>.</p><p>He knows it’s different for Andrés. The man soaks up the adulation of the crowds like a sponge, always wanting more. He’s comfortable -no, <em>thriving</em> – in front of any kind of lens, and why not? Andrés de Fonollosa is everybody’s darling, the quintessential film star: Tall, dark and devastatingly handsome with those chiselled features, long lashes and a voice that permeates you right to the bone. It also doesn’t hurt that acting comes to him as natural as breathing. <em>Yeah, there’s absolutely no reason for low self-esteem there. </em>Andrés’ also fits the image of the Golden Age playboy – five marriages, and five divorces under his belt, and a new girl on his arm at every premiere. He’s ridiculously perfect and when Martín met him for the first time, he just wanted to shrivel up and disappear. But they were at the first read-through with the whole cast and Martín had to do his job, so he just said his lines as best he could, willing his voice to be firm and his expressions to reflect the passionate madness of his character, with no weakness apparent. And the man who was to be his counterpart for the most intimate scenes Martín had ever filmed had looked at him warmly, approvingly, and <em>smiled</em>.</p><p>Now, almost a year after that read-through, a lot has changed for both of them. Martín is finally a household name not only in his native Argentina, but on the other end of the world as well. Andrés, whose prickly character had always endeared him more to the yellow-press hacks than the critics and award selection committees, is nominated for every major award Europe has to offer (and everybody knows the person who snags a Golden Globe is on the fast track for an Academy Award). The days pass in a blur of press junkets in cities Martín has never been to before, and the one thing that makes everything brighter, more beautiful is the presence of Andrés by his side. He is also the one who grounds him, keeps him from spiralling when the press are after them like bloodhounds, drawn in by the scent of salaciousness and scandal. Just this week, while they’re in Cannes and gearing up for the big nights, news of the fifth divorce get out. It’s all anyone talks about, in the cafés and restaurants, at the backstage of the press conferences and on the red carpet – <em>why on earth would a successful actor split from his beautiful darling wife when they are the image of married bliss? </em>It’s incomprehensible to those who are dazzled by the glamour and don’t care to look beneath the make-up.</p><p><em>If only they knew</em>, Martín thinks, and the frenzy gives him yet another reason to keep his mouth tightly shut. Andrés notices the growing discomfort, the rising anxiety whenever Martín has a microphone shoved in his face, and he tries his best to deflect, but as much as acting is the man’s daily bread, he hates faking and dishonesty. Martín knows this, because they have talked about it in the past months. <em>If they find out, they’ll treat me like the scum of the Earth, </em>Martín had said. <em>No, they won’t, because you’ll be free. You’ll be free to be yourself and nobody could withstand the force of your radiance, </em>Andrés had replied. But he had relented, for the time being. In the past few weeks, while their film has consistently attracted more and more viewers, breaking box office records, the arguments have gotten more frequent and every invasive interview increases the tension even more. Something has to give, sooner or later, and Martín is so, so scared of what he’ll do when it finally happens, he already had to excuse himself to the bathroom once or twice because he couldn’t suppress the tears anymore.</p><p>Thankfully, it’ll soon be over, because the festival bubble is getting ready for the big night, the awarding of the <em>Palme d’Or. </em>In preparation, all lead actors of the nominated films are being interviewed for French television. Since Martín’s character has a supporting role, he’s free to linger backstage, out of the camera frame and observe Andrés, like any friendly co-worker would.</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>Watch now: L’Interview with Marie Drucker and Andrés de Fonollosa</em>
    </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      
    </strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD: </em>
    </strong>
    <em>Señor de Fonollosa, thank you so much for being here with us tonight! This festival is one of the high points of the year so tell me, have you been looking forward to it as well?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Yes, of course. What’s not to love about a week like this? It’s summer, we’re on the Côte d’Azur and the films shown this year are certainly worthy contestants. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: It’s also your first time in Cannes, if I’m not mistaken?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Well, yes and no. I’ve been here before, obviously, but this is the first time any work of mine is being considered by the jury. It’s exciting, and a very rewarding feeling. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Why is it that you’ve never been nominated for a Palme d’Or before? Is the competition simply too stiff?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Oh, no. While I certainly esteem my colleagues’ work, I think I’ve been around long enough to have established myself in the industry. No, I think it’s because I try to experience life to the fullest and am quite particular about the roles I play. I don’t like being pressured into things just because a studio head thinks he can make millions of euros with a script. If the artistic appeal isn’t there, I’m not doing it. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: That’s a very noble notion, but I’m sure it’s made you a little unpopular at times.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em> (laughs): It certainly has. But I don’t care much about people’s opinions, as long as I’m satisfied. I know I’ve been called a bonvivant, or even a narcissist, but ultimately, I want to look in the mirror and know that I’ve not wasted my time in any way. Carpe diem, as the saying goes.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: So now that we know that you’re a picky one, can you tell us what attracted you about this part you’re playing in your latest work? “Love over Gold”, it’s called?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Well, you know, at first glance it’s a gangster film of sorts. There’s a heist going on, and the motivation seems straightforward – get all this gold out. But as the plot unfolds, you’ll realise that everyone of the robbers has a backstory. “No man is an island”, an English poet said, and that’s the core truth the plot centres around. The people in “Love over Gold” fancy themselves hardened criminals, but they have to come to terms with the fact that they are still tied to other people. You’ll get to experience all these different shades of love and happiness… and tragedy, until finally the gold just doesn’t matter anymore. The character development is fantastic.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: That certainly sounds like a great way to make a mark as an actor. And what about your part? Does Berlín undergo this introspective journey as well?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Yes. More so than others, I’d say. At the beginning, he’s a right bastard and you won’t like him much, but, like all of them, he’s wearing a mask. This robber is just a persona, and the man behind the smokescreen has a past full of troubled relationships and for the longest time, he didn’t know what he actually wants from life. He’s a bit like me. Once he realises what’s been missing, the going gets even tougher for him because he’ll only find happiness if he makes amends for grievances he caused in the past. It’s a very painful journey, but…well, you’ll see whether the effort is worth it!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Very intriguing, thank you for this insight. You’ve given us a little hint about relationship troubles, and there is one particular scene in the trailer that’s had a big impact on viewers and critics alike. Can you guess which one?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF: </em>
    </strong>
    <em>I believe I can. Does it happen to be the one in the vault I shot with Martín?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: You’re right on the money. Your character, Berlín, has an argument with Palermo, played by Martín Berrote, and it seems like it evolves into a passionate monologue about the nature of love and friendship. Care to shed some more light?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: As much as I’d like to – there’s plenty to unpack in this scene, you’ll see – I’m afraid this would spoiler the views too much. You’ll have to be patient.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Very well. There’s this one thing I want to touch upon, you mentioned earlier that you discovered yourself in Berlín. Are we to assume that you’re secretly a bank robber, or did something about the character’s personality resonate with you?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Let me put it like this: If I’d known earlier what happiness looked like, I would have spent less time falling into arms that were not.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: So, you’re saying, you identify with Berlín’s struggles.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: I’m saying that being an actor at a certain level means you’re strongly encouraged to conform to the expectations of everyone outside the bubble, that you’re someone with a perfect life and a perfect partner. And I subscribed to that, wholeheartedly, because I didn’t know better, but I never found the perfect partner. Not until I stepped on this film set and discovered that I didn’t need bigger, better, more beautiful. I just needed the one love that made all others irrelevant. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em> (collects her thoughts for a moment): Well. Thank you, Señor de Fonollosa, your honesty is quite disarming.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Yes, that’s what I discovered, too. It’s also very relieving.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Now, we don’t know about the end that your character Berlín will meet, but would you say you found a happy one? You know, the endgame, the until-death-do-us-part relationship.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: Yes. He’s every hope I ever had in human form.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>MD: </em>
    </strong>
    <em>He?</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>AdF</em>
    </strong>
    <em>: That’s right. An announcement like this usually isn’t my style, but I’ve witnessed firsthand the damage that peer pressure can do. And if a successful actor and all-around wonderful man has been made to feel inferior in the past, then what happens to those who don’t receive the adulation of the public? To those who live as one among many, overlooked and disregarded? </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  
</p><p>Martín has watched the interview like one would watch a car crash – you can’t look away, however much you want to. He felt the invisible ropes around him tighten unbearably, felt the buzzing in his ears, the haze settling on his thoughts. <em>This is how it ends, </em>he thinks, because he knows that Andrés’ piecemeal revelations about his own introspection and development can only lead down one road. As soon as the other actor has uttered that fateful pronoun “he” – and how can such a little word have such an impact – the ropes snap and he is adrift and torn between relief and sheer terror. <em>It’s out in the open now, you don’t have to hide anymore,</em> and then, the next second, <em>he hasn’t said your name, but they’re not stupid, they can see you now, all of you and there’s nowhere to hide. </em>He’s so wrapped up in the downward spiral of his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the journalist has wrapped up the interview, the producer calling “cut” and the cameras being switched off. As always, it’s Andrés’ presence that shakes him out of it, a familiar pattern of footsteps coming towards him.</p><p>Martín looks up and sees Andrés standing just a few inches away from him – keeping an innocuous distance, smiling softly, with a questioning look in his eyes. <em>Giving you an out, </em>Martín realises. He could clap Andrés on the shoulder, say a few platitudes about press duties and walk out of here with nobody being any wiser. But Andrés has taken a risk today by announcing that he is in a relationship with a man, and not only that, no. <em>The love to make all others irrelevant, </em>he’d said, promising an eternity without actually saying the words, and Martín may feel unworthy still, but who is he to reject such a gift? The gift of finally having someone who understands and accepts him as he is, during the good and the hard times, who is willing to go out on a limb for him.</p><p>He’s shaking like a leaf, he realises, but he walks towards Andrés nonetheless, closing the distance. They’re right in each other’s personal space, so close they can feel the warmth from each other’s bodies. Martín doesn’t say a word but his feelings are open for Andrés to see as he looks up at him. Andrés lifts his hand, gently cups his cheek before letting his fingers trail slowly towards his neck. Drawing him closer still. Anchoring him.</p><p>They kiss in a TV studio, surrounded by journalists and their crews and the usual bystanders. Within the hour, everyone in Cannes and probably the entire Western hemisphere will know that Andrés de Fonollosa came out, that Andrés de Fonollosa kissed <em>Martín Berrote</em>, and it will change their lives irrevocably. But Andrés just made a decision, and so does Martín.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Andrés asks softly. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to be scared. You don’t have to be scared ever again, because I’m with you, and I'm not leaving.”</p><p>Martín nods.</p><p>“I know that now.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Palme d’Or 2021: “Love over Gold” sweeps the festival</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Breaking: Andrés de Fonollosa and Martín Berrote a secret couple for months!!</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>***</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>GQ Exclusive: Andrés and Martín Berrote y de Fonollosa on moving across continents, marriage and the prequel to “Love over Gold” they’re producing</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Calliope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To quote Pink Floyd, is anybody out there?</p><p>I'm so sorry that I've taken taken so long, but work has picked up and I was gone a lot in the last week. Nevertheless, here we are, and after all the enthusiastic reactions, I hope the new chapter doesn't disappoint! Be advised, this time there's angst ahead...</p><p>As always, kudos and comments make me a happy girl :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>6. Calliope (Epic poetry)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The winds are howling, chopping up the sea and throwing huge waves against the walls of the caravel. After the relative calm of the first days, the change of weather comes as a shock, an unwelcome reminder that Madeira is behind them, and ahead is only the vast ocean and the promised land they are all longing for, somewhere so far away that it’s almost unreal. Below deck, the members of this newest Spanish expedition to the New World huddle in small groups, trying to share reassuring warmth and candlelight as much as they can. One man sits apart, not interacting with any of the other passengers, wrapped up in a cloak, writing on a piece of parchment. Being cooped up in close quarters, they have gotten to know each other pretty well, but the <em>se</em><em>ñ</em><em>or</em> with the noble bearing and stormy countenance has rebuffed any overtures at being friendly. Since he seems the type who would throw an unwanted shipmate overboard on a night like this, it has been decided the man is to be left alone.</p><p>---</p><p>The <em>Marina </em>set sail from Cádiz two weeks ago, although to Andrés it seems like a lifetime ago. In fourteen days, he has barely spoken twenty words to the other passengers, spending the days staring out into the nothingness, and the nights writing down his story, so that <em>someone </em>someday may read what happened. For fourteen days, he has been clinging to every memory he has of his beloved Salamanca, and of his lover<em>, </em>but the images are fraying at the edges already. Months ago, when it all started, Andrés would not have thought he could ever feel such despair.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The year was 1528, and while life was still sunny for the citizens of Salamanca, clouds on the horizon were already foreshadowing more trying times. A constant source of hope and pride for the citizens was the construction of a new cathedral, begun in 1513. It drew the most accomplished craftsmen in, and facilitated a flourishing of the arts and culture in an already well-to-do town. But when there is light, there is also shadow, and the greatest shadow was the Spanish Inquisition that had spread rapidly from the South throughout the country, until every major city in the Crown of Castile had a tribunal. In Salamanca, Fray Luis Tamayo presided over the religious life, his henchmen all over town reporting to him the comings and goings of everyone – not even the rich, noble families were exempt from constant supervision. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Andrés de Fonollosa, eldest son of one such family and scholar at the School of Salamanca, found these circumstances to be manifestly unjust, especially since Fray Tamayo did not discriminate between heresy and what he believed to be an unnatural interest in art and culture. To him, any outstanding work of man was a mockery of creation itself, and he tirelessly hectored the people to live frugally and in constant deference to the Church. Andrés’ family had been historians and philosophers for generations, and as such, he preferred to view man’s aspiration for beauty as an act of creation for God’s glory, not mocking but worshipping through hammer and chisel, quill and parchment, brush and paint. Andrés also enjoyed the creature comforts that life among the upper echelons of society afforded him, and so he and Tamayo had been each other’s bête noir for years. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re playing with fire”, his little brother Sergio admonished Andrés regularly. “One of these days he’ll find the chink in your armour that he’s looking for, and then no amount of gold or penitence will be able to save you.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Andrés shivers, the damp of the sea breeze permeating his thick woollen cloak even below deck. Little Sergio. He’d always preferred books to the company of others. Perhaps that was where his pessimistic outlook on life had come from. Now, Andrés curses himself for not listening to his brother. But then again, he knows he would have changed nothing. His was a path written by destiny, and even if he’d known that it would lead to him fleeing Salamanca and traveling to the new world, he still would have walked it, because it gave him the love of his life.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>As befitting their status in society, the de Fonollosa y Marquina got involved in the construction of the new cathedral from the start. Beginning with assemblies at the archbishop’s palace and continuing with a selection of suitable workers from town, Andrés utilised his many contacts and had secured employment for many of his preferred craftsmen. He spent as much time on the construction site as he could. Just the fundaments were laid, but even the smallest of stones was to be adorned with intricate sculpture, and he never tired of watching humble men showing their masterful skill.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One fine spring day, Andrés went out to visit Agustín the stonemason, an acquaintance so longstanding that he was almost a friend. As he approached the tent, he could hear an unfamiliar voice yelling – a stranger was towering over Daniel, Agustín’s son and apprentice, berating him for a mistake with a very colourful choice of words. The man was wearing the customary leather apron, and Andrés pinned him down as one of Agustín’s fellow workers. He greeted the older man with a clap on the shoulder and then nodded towards the direction of the shouting match. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What’s going on over there?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To his surprise, Agustín only grinned. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, it’s nothing. I asked our new master from the South to take my boy under his wing. He’s quite amazing, you know, and Daniel has learned everything I could teach him.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is it customary for a master to shout at his apprentice like that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No”, Agustín chuckled, “but Martín doesn’t suffer fools gladly. And he has a bit of a temper. But as I said, he’s brilliant. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>If he’d known what this simple introduction would bring, would Agustín have been quite so accommodating, Andrés wonders. He knows that the man wasn’t a bible-thumper like so many were these days, but there were certain lines that no man would cross. Well, almost no man.</p><p>It turned out Agustín had been right, because Andrés and the new stonemason, Martín, struck up an immediate acquaintance, facilitated by a sense of kinship that quite transcended their different ranks in society. Before long, Andrés dropped by the stonemasons’ tent daily, sometimes just to say hello, but most often to spend at least an hour watching Martín work, talking to him about his studies at the School, or listening to him explaining his designs and the techniques he was using to shape the stones. Andrés had always believed that the craftsmen were a worthy kind, more so than most noblemen, because they were graced with the gift of creating wonderful things out of raw materials. Quite often, they understood his musings on art better than his relatives, who were only interested in hunting and banquets. However, he had never met anyone quite as fascinating as Martín.</p><p>Any man who achieved the status of a master in his craft or trade had to be intelligent above the average, but Martín was <em>so much more</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Andrés smiles softly, vividly recalling the delight he felt in discovering the depths of his new friend’s personality.</p><p>He was well-educated, without a doubt, and well-spoken, able to hold his own in a discussion, talking about complex matters of architecture and construction that even some of the other masters and the learned men of the church could not follow. He was witty and sarcastic and funny, making him well-liked among his peers. He was – no matter what his fiery temper might suggest – approachable, and his passion for the craft of stonemasonry made him an excellent teacher to the apprentices. His hands were dextrous, bringing stone to life with intricate patterns and fantastical figurines in the likeness of angels, demons and mischievous sprites. Despite a life of hard work mostly outdoors, he was not rough and weathered in his appearance, but had a healthy tan, generous lips that would smile so widely and sparkling blue eyes the colour of a fine summer’s day. Simply put, Martín was captivating and <em>beautiful, </em>in every aspect. No amount of time spent in his company seemed to be enough.</p><p>The memories of those first weeks of getting to know each other lead Andrés ever deeper into the maze of his own thoughts. A whirlwind of impressions and emotions– <em>seeing Martín at work, the first time they had a drink together and Andrés felt so warm all over despite only having had one cup of wine, the time Martín finally agreed to call at Palacio Fonollosa  – </em>blurring the line between gentleman and craftsman, patron and beneficiary, more and more, beyond what was acceptable in the eyes of the townsfolk and Sergio as well. It culminated in a night Andrés will never forget, even though it tortures him with the images of a paradise found and then lost again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Andrés was sitting by the fire, a glass of wine in his right hand, the left flicking listlessly through a book in his lap – despite his air of studied boredom, he felt keyed-up inside, and not even his favourite, the Iliad, could distract his mind. He glanced up at his brother, who was milling around, gathering papers for his evening discussion with the School’s other scholars of natural law.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Martín is coming over later”, he remarked casually. As if it was nothing. As if there hadn’t been discussions about the company he kept. As if it wasn’t the talk of their conceited social circle already, how much time a don of the town and a mere craftsman were spending together. Sergio turned to look at him, frowning, lips pursed disapprovingly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Really, Andrés? I’ve told you a dozen times already, it doesn’t matter how intelligent he is, how interesting you find him. Your status and his lack thereof will forever keep you apart and if you insist on keeping him around, it will be to your detriment. Tamayo has eyes and ears everywhere and he disapproves of you flaunting your liberal views. He’ll look for some way to harm you, and your association with a stonemason is grist for his mill. It’s dangerous, Martín is dangerous!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergio’s voice had started out annoyed but become insistent, beseeching almost. Andrés merely lifted his eyebrow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What will he do? Accuse me of heresy and treason when Martín and I have only been discussing ecclesiastical architecture? When I am the one paying for a large part of the new cathedral? Tamayo will find nothing because there is nothing to take offense at. We are close, yes, but since when does it go against the Scriptures to have friends?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergio let out a loud huff and deflated. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Very well. Have it your way, I just hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll probably stay at the School’s guesthouse, you know how long these discussions last. Until tomorrow, hermano.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And he left, banging the door shut in a pointed show of irritation. Andrés sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the onset of a headache. Sergio’s nagging was getting on his nerves and it had grown ever more persistent in the past weeks. But Martín would be here soon, his presence both balm and nourishment for Andrés’ mind and soul. Everything else was of no importance. Andrés would not desist from him.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Lost in reminiscence on his ship in the middle of an ocean, Andrés felt the sense of dread that wasn’t present that night, when all he could think of was his happiness, which hinged so much on the presence of one person in his life. The despair was overwhelming, even more so because he knew now that both Sergio and him had been right in their own way. Sergio, bookish and cautious by nature, was a good judge of character and he had been justified in singling Tamayo out as an enemy. Andrés had been right in insisting that his deeds for the church and his status were enough protection against the Inquisition, but his own actions would soon render all of that null and void.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Martín had arrived looking dead on his feet after a long day at the construction site, but when Andrés had offered to postpone their meeting, he had insisted that he was fine, teasingly remarking that it was up to Andrés to offer conversation riveting enough to keep him awake. Of course, Andrés had been more than happy to do so, and they had fallen into easy conversation over a late dinner prepared specially for Martín. As always, he’d had seemed embarrassed by the attentiveness, mumbling that he had eaten during the day and that it really wasn’t necessary to inconvenience the cook for his sake – a statement that Andrés had disregarded completely, because he knew for a fact that the food the workers were given barely lived up to the name, and Martín deserved more – more care, more good things in his life, more than he had been given so far. He knew those thoughts were dangerous, and he’d kept them bottled up for weeks, but he couldn’t help himself.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They’d retreated to the library afterwards, since Andrés had purchased a treatise about the intermarrying of different architectural styles in England, and he had been wanting to show it to Martín for days now. Even though architecture wasn’t his domain and he could only appreciate the detailed drawings, he delighted in listening to Martín’s explanations, always accompanied by expansive gestures and a wide smile. Tonight was no different, but once Martín had finished his enthusiastic ramblings, he had grown quiet, bending over once more to inspect the volume.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What I wouldn’t give to see those wonders with my own eyes one day”, he said wistfully, tracing the lines of an elevation with a finger. Then he chuckled lightly, attempting to mask the bitterness of his next words. “But those are just pipe dreams for a simple stonemason, I beg you, don’t listen to me. Working on this cathedral here, being allowed to get to know you, means I’ve already been blessed beyond measure.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hearing Martín’s self-deprecating words, such easy acceptance of his own insignificance all of a sudden was more than Andrés could bear. Before he even realised what was happening, the words had already left his mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll take you to England, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d all but blurted it out, and Martín raised his head slowly, looking surprised.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why? You’ve already given me so much, you don’t have to do anything more. It’s not like I can offer you anything.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Because I want to, Martín, because you deserve it! Don’t you realise how much you’ve brightened every day since I met you?  Your extraordinary mind, your passion for your craft, and for life, your disregard for the petty concerns of what should be done when you know all that is possible if we only dared… You shouldn’t listen to the tittle-tattle in town, none of these people see the world as we do, so beautiful, full of man-made wonders, ready to be explored. I want to do that with you, I…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Andrés trailed off. There was no way out of this but absolute honesty, even if it would crush him in the end. And so he bared his heart and soul to Martín, like he never had done before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If you asked, I’d give you the world, all of it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A deafening silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then, Martín closed the book and stepped around the table, closer to Andrés. He looked at him, eyes wide and searching, uncertainty reflected in their depths. Bit his lip, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Did he want to reach out and touch as badly as Andrés wanted to?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was like the world as a whole held its breath. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever emotions were displayed on Andrés’ face, they must have been enough for Martín to break the impossible stalemate by stepping even closer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their gazes locked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their chests touched.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Martín’s lips parted slightly, the tip of his tongue flicking out ever so briefly to moisten them. Andrés’ breath hitched. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was no first move. Equal as they were in hearts and minds and everything that mattered, they simply melted into each other, lips finding each other in a feather-light kiss – warm pressure, a whisper of a touch, nothing more, yet it was the single most intimate moment in Andrés’ life. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When the kiss ended, they did not draw back. Instead, Martín leaned in and pressed his face into Andrés’ shoulder, his hands clutching at Andrés’ shirt, never relinquishing their touch. In turn, Andrés’ arms wound themselves around the man he held so dear, fingers carding through Martín’s hair in a gentle caress. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Andrés…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The other man’s voice was barely more than an exhale in the crook of Andrés’ neck, and it made him shiver. Just holding Martín was delicious, but it wasn’t enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Martín, I need…”, Andrés rasped out, his voice hoarse. He didn’t even know what it was he needed, but Martín understood, as always. He tugged Andrés in and kissed him again, and this time there was no hesitancy at all. The first wet, insistent slide of tongue meeting tongue was incendiary and made them both gasp, press closer, their desire evident in the hardness they both felt against each other’s hip.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Just thinking about their first time is enough to suffuse Andrés with warmth all over, despite the cold of the ship’s interior.</p><p>Before this night, all he’d had were encounters with a few adventurous ladies and while they satisfied his physical needs, he’d never lost himself in these women’s bodies. With Martín, however, touching and being touched in return became a necessity, something he felt sure he’d die without. Andrés willingly submitted to his lover, let Martín teach him how to pleasure another man – they discovered how to elicit the sweetest moans from each other, which swipe of a tongue or caress of a hand made them express their desire in a string of filthy blasphemy, and that the final union of their bodies rendered them completely incoherent, only able to stammer out pleas and confessions of their love for each other.</p><p>To Andrés, those four words were almost insufficient to describe what was between Martín and him. Love – wasn’t that what supposedly connected all the married couples? Those couples who were so clearly bored in each other’s company, sometimes despising each other outright. And yet, a union sanctioned by the Church gave a veneer of romance to what were ultimately business transactions, made them worth celebrating. The ubiquitous hypocrisy was revolting, but Andrés found comfort in the fact that nobody would be able to understand his relationship with Martín –it went against every rule of Church and society alike, and the sheer depth of feeling was incomprehensible to their pedestrian little minds. How could they grasp the concept of soulmates when they all thought only God could deliver salvation? Andrés had no interest in divine redemption though, since nothing that Paradise had to offer could possibly be better than spending his days observing Martín the stonemason at work, and spending his nights worshipping Martín the man in the privacy of his chambers. Completely devoted to each other as they were, they spent weeks in a blissful bubble where the outside world simply didn’t exist.</p><p>But it did.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It was morning, so early that the sun was still down and just a few hues of a soft pink dawn were splashed across the silky-dark sky. Under the cloak of the lingering darkness, Andrés and Martín had parted ways after yet another night spent together. It had been the third within a week and Andrés was aware that they were being reckless, but how could he stop when Martín’s kisses were caresses that he felt down to the very depths of his soul, when his touches lingered the whole day, long after his lover had left? Also, the gossipmongers had been quiet and not even the Chief Inquisitor had vexed Andrés with his narrow-minded idiocy. Everything was as well as it could be, and Andrés had gone to bed again, burrowing into sheets that still smelled of their lovemaking with a happy sigh. He pressed his face into the pillow with a silly grin, recalling how he’d stood in the doorframe just now, watching Martín walk away like a lovestruck maiden. Well, if the shoe fit…</em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>A banging on his door woke him from slumber and a delicious dream, a fuzzy variation of the night he’d had. He let out an indistinct grumble to tell whoever was outside that they could get lost, but the banging only got more insistent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Andrés, get up right this instant!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t like Sergio to bang his fists or shout. He’d frown and tut and chastise, but he never demanded Andrés do anything. Thus, his little scene, as irritating as it was, was enough for Andrés to drag himself out of bed, put on his favourite burgundy robe, and open the door. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hermanito, what on earth is going on?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergio fixed him with a gaze and what he said next made the blood in Andrés’ veins run cold. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You have been found out. I just had that snivelling rat Gandia killed before he could report to Tamayo, but my man doesn’t know whether he told anyone else. I have sent someone to fetch Martín before they can get to him. Get dressed.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>To this day, Andrés can still remember the succession of events clearly. The images of his dream, all soft touches and warmth, the grave expression on his brother’s face, the rush to get to Martín before anybody else did. Sergio, dear Sergio with his pessimistic and bookish ways had been the one to save them in this instant, displaying a decisiveness, a strength of character and yes, an ability to be swift and merciless that Andrés hadn’t seen until then. Sergio had saved their lives from the Inquisition, but doomed them all the same.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Martín had been waiting for them in the library – where we first kissed, Andrés thought dazedly – looking like a deer in the headlights. Upon seeing Andrés, he rushed straight over and into his arms. Even though he had known Sergio for a while now, he’d never shown his affection for Andrés in company, something that must have occurred to him too, because he drew back, a frantic expression on his face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sergio, I-“</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Save it, Martín. I know you and my brother are lovers, I have for a while now. You see, I’m constantly worrying for Andrés. He thinks narrowmindedness is a danger, but in truth his liberal views are a far greater peril in the world we live in. I’ve feared for a while that one day he would do something to put himself at risk, but I didn’t imagine it would involve sodomy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergio’s harsh tone paired with him naming their sin, saying it out loud, made Andrés and Martín flinch, but Andrés squared his shoulders and looked at his brother, eyes blazing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t you dare talk about it like that, when you have no idea what we feel for each other, none at all!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At the same time, Martín shouted, “I love him!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Angry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Scared. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Desperate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergio looked between them, and just nodded.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes. Yes, I know. I’ve had an eye on you for a while, believe me. The fact that you love each other is why this can’t continue. The Inquisition might forgive an aberration of the flesh, if Martín got out of Salamanca and you confessed to being seduced by the devil, Andrés, who made you desire a man. They won’t forgive any talk about feelings that go against God’s word.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They stood there, pale and wide-eyed, and Sergio saw that the hopelessness of their situation finally sunk in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Please don’t believe that I share their opinion. The Inquisition oppresses, steals all joy out of people’s lives and I don’t see why they would make already pitiful existences more miserable. I don’t care for their views of right and wrong, but I do care about my family.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Andrés remembers how his little brother had steeled himself, looking so much older all of a sudden, and delivered the final blow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I care about you, Andrés, and I care about you as well, Martín. You’re a good man and I’m not stupid enough to ignore how happy you’ve made my brother. I don’t want to see either of you dead, which is why you have to leave, Martín. Leave Salamanca behind, go and find another cathedral to work on, and live.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tears in his eyes, Martín already looked half-dead at those words. Andrés knew what he had to do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tuned out his brother’s presence in the room, turning towards his lover. Gently framing Martín’s face with his hands, he bent down to kiss him, sweetly, as if to ease the pain of what was to come.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This cathedral is your masterpiece, Martín, and you’re happy here. I won’t let them take that away from you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He fixed his brother with a stern gaze.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I will go.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a broken sob, Martín flung his arms around Andrés, desperately pressing close, and Andrés felt himself tear up as well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t leave, please don’t leave, there’s nothing here for me if you’re gone, Andrés, please…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Martín, mi amor, I have to. Sergio is right, if we both stay here, it will be our end. I couldn’t stay away from you any more than you’d be willing to let me go, and they would burn us at the stake. I cannot let you die and know it’s because of me. I want you healthy, and whole, and if I have to leave, then so be it. Please, querido. It hurts me as much as you, but it has to be, precisely because of our love. Because of the commitment I have to you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Martín only sobbed harder, but his desperate pleading stopped.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If you leave, where will you go?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Andrés lifted his head from where he had buried it in Martín’s shoulders and turned towards the third man in the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sergio will secure me passage to the New World. The next expedition will leave in a few days from Cádiz and they always want volunteers.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If Andrés was to sail from Cádiz, he had to get out of Salamanca immediately. Intelligent as he was, Sergio understood the tacit order. With a last glance at them both, he left the room, undoubtedly to make the necessary arrangements.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, Martín understood as well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re putting an ocean between us to keep me safe. Don’t you know that I’m lost without you? That if you leave on that damned ship, I’ll never see you again?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was true, so true of course, but hearing it spoken aloud was too much for Andrés, so he stopped Martín with a deep kiss. And another. And another, until they were panting for breath, lips wet and swollen, Martín’s taste in his mouth and the touch of his hands made his body tingle all over. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I won’t leave you behind forever, I couldn’t. We have to part for now but one way or another, Martín, time will bring us back together.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shuddering, Andrés presses his palms to his face, trying to hide his upset from the other passengers currently below deck. He can’t remember how long they’d stood in that library, clinging to each other and kissing until their breath was one, not speaking, trying to melt into each other and to commit the feel of having each other so close to memory. Eventually, Sergio had returned with the news that a messenger had been sent to Cádiz to inform the expedition leader of Andrés’ journey and that he’d found a place for Martín to lay low at until it could be established that he wasn’t in danger anymore.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“It’s all taken care of, hermano, but you have to pack now. Martín, there’s a man I trust outside to get you out of here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing could be heard but quite sobs and the sound of lips meeting in another deep kiss. Eventually, Andrés drew back, his lips fluttering against Martín’s one last time. He looked his lover in the eye, wiping Martín’s tears away with his thumbs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I love you. We are soulmates, never forget that.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With those parting words, he had turned around and walked out of the library without looking back. His words had been empty, and they both known it, a lie to dull the pain and to enable them to finally let go of each other. Had he looked back, he would have stayed and never made it onto this accursed ship where he is now, lost in memories and misery.</p><p>No, Andrés de Fonollosa will never see the spires of Salamanca again. He will never even set foot on Spanish soil again and most likely get killed by disease or the indigenous people of this strange and foreign land he’s headed towards. He doesn’t care either way. He’s been blessed with the greatest love but didn’t get to keep it, so he will live out the rest of his days, however many there may be, paying homage to this love. Martín will construct cathedrals for the glory of a loving God who turns his followers into cruel beasts, but Andrés will construct entire worlds on paper, all for the only one he ever worshipped.</p><p>He will write poems about their love, he will commit Martín’s beauty to paper in ink and luminous colours, and he will recount all the ways they were made to suffer.</p><p>Their story is an epic, too great to understand, but he will make make the world remember regardless.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Polyhymnia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m back with another chapter! This is a short one because – drum roll – this AU is going to be continued in Chapter 8! Stay tuned...</p><p>As always, I’ve tried to do my due diligence with research, but I have taken a few liberties with the setting – the monastery is real, but is a major tourist attraction, so not really the secluded spot I’m describing. I’ve probably butchered the correct order of the liturgy as well: As the monks are Benedictines, they’ll follow the standard Liturgy of the Hours with five major sets of prayers. The Evensong belongs to the Anglican church, but it’s a nice concept so I borrowed it for this story. Also, I have no idea who sings what and when, but hey, you wouldn’t read this without some suspension of disbelief anyway 😉 </p><p>Happy reading, and if you liked it, a kudos or comment would mean the world!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>7. Polyhymnia (Hymns)</p><p> </p><p>“Oh for the love of – not that caterwauling, not AGAIN!”</p><p>Martín glances up from his building plans and towards his colleague Daniel. There’s no sound that he would classify as caterwauling, just the faint echo of male voices. A choir, singing liturgical music, as they do everyday at the hours of Laud and Vesper.</p><p>They’re at the <em>Monasterio de San Julián de Samos </em>in a picturesque little corner of Galicia, so an encounter with monks as well as other ecclesiastical matters is to be expected. As far as commissions go, their architectural firm Berrote, Marquina &amp; Partners has lucked out here. Restoring ancient buildings is time-consuming and usually involves a lot of legal wrangling, usually concerning heritage conservation, but it’s very rewarding to join a long list of masters of the craft, not to mention that it’s far more interesting than designing the umpteenth office block. Martín is the project leader due to his status as partner of the firm, and Daniel is his understudy, so to speak. He’s a talented newcomer, if sometimes a little rash in his choice of words, which is why Martín shushes him. The Benedictines are a proverbial goldmine and it wouldn’t do to upset the abbot, who is a little old-fashioned in his views of community outreach – that is to say, he prefers seclusion and didn’t want architects traipsing around the property in the first place.</p><p>“Shut up, Daniel, your big mouth will one day cost us a commission!”</p><p>He’s told Daniel as well as the workers they’ve hired to adapt to monastical life, to be courteous and considerate of the Rule of Benedict: No loud imprecations, no foul language within earshot of a monk, no loud music during hours of prayer and service, and no wandering through the residential buildings. Martín leads by example, and while he may not be religious himself, he finds the slower pace of life calming. He’s hoping that if he plays his cards right, he’ll get the abbot’s permission to explore some more, especially the library with its ancient treatises on philosophy and the other areas where visitors aren’t permitted. The monastery is old, first mentioned some time during the 7<sup>th</sup> century, and it’s a veritable feast for the eyes of an architect.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s July, the feast day of Saint James, Galicia’s patron saint, is drawing closer and life in the monastery has slightly changed pace. More pilgrims are stopping by on their way to Santiago de Compostela, and the monks have begun to include different songs, serene and joyful in their praise, into the services. On the feast day itself, a mass for the people of the wider community is going to be held in the chapel, so those monks who form the core of the choir have added extra hours of practice to the day.</p><p>Today, Martín is studying old plans of the buildings and the area, trying to get a feel for the combination of different architectural styles – after all, his work, while new, should fit in seamlessly. It’s fairly hot, so he’s decided to spread out his papers on a table in the shade of the cloister. He’s quite close to the chapel door, and the faint singing provides the right backdrop and he gets lost in site plans and elevations – that is, until a new song begins and the sound changes.</p><p>Before, the choir sung in its polyphonic entirety. Now, a single baritone voice is raised, leading the choir in a liturgical recitative, a give and take between one voice praising God and the many echoing his calls. Naturally, the songs are in Latin, so Martín doesn’t understand a word, but his architect’s mind always finds structure appealing. And maybe that single beautiful voice captures the attention of that other, deeply-buried part in him, the one that just <em>feels, </em>and wants to <em>drown </em>in sentiment.</p><p>It’s a side of him he keeps well-hidden. Not necessarily because it’s a darker side or whatever word the more poetically gifted would use, no. But when he gets like this, allows himself to be overwhelmed by his feelings, he’s <em>vulnerable, </em>laid bare for everyone to see, and it’s brought him too much pain. There have been several close calls in the past, with abusive boyfriends and other hook-ups who were just complete pieces of shit, all taking advantage of Martín’s emotions and his propensity to <em>give, give, give, </em>until there’s nothing left of him. One such incident ended with him in the shower, crying, razorblade in hand, and it was only a combination of his shaking hands and the calm reassurances of his best friend Sergio that prevented the worst. Ever since, he has hardened his resolve and armoured his heart against any sort of profound sentiment or attachment.</p><p>But what could happen here, in a monastery in the middle of nowhere? The thing that plucks on Martín’s heartstrings is just a nameless, faceless voice, nothing more.</p><p>---</p><p>The voice doesn’t stay faceless. Martín really should have known. Once his curiosity is triggered, he really has no survival instincts to hold him back. It’s exactly how he always got himself into his messes before.</p><p>The abbot has considerably warmed up in his attitude towards laypeople on monastery grounds. He’s made it a habit to stop by at least twice a week, both to check the progress of their restorative work, and to benevolently remark how everybody works to serve the Almighty in different ways. In the spirit of fraternisation, Martín and even Daniel have struck up a longer conversation with him more than once, and it never fails to entertain how Daniel bumbles his way through the chat by sagely (and wrongly) quoting Bible verses, before resorting to a desperate enquiry about the vegetable garden as his last straw of small talk. Martín mostly just speaks about his work, because he’s not interested in giving a Catholic clergyman a glimpse into his private life of sin (not that there’s much sinning going on, single as he is), but one day he mentions that he plays guitar in his free time. The abbot smiles at this.</p><p>“You are fond of music, my son?”</p><p>Martín shrugs.</p><p>“Well, yes, I suppose. It’s very relaxing and gives me something to do with my hands. Sometimes I sing, too. Traditional songs from home, which nobody really knows in Spain. I don’t really miss Buenos Aires, but sometimes I get a craving for a familiar sound, or smell.”</p><p>“Well, my son, we all are the branches of the Lord’s vine. We grow, but we all have roots somewhere, and it is right and proper to remember where we come from. I am glad you can find solace in music, and you are more than welcome to join our congregation in the chapel. I expect you’ll be busy during the day, but perhaps you can find time to listen to our Evensong? It’s very peaceful, and quite popular with some of the villagers as well.”</p><p>The abbot smiles, nods and walks off towards his office, leaving Martín slightly dumbstruck by the sudden charm offensive. But it’s a generous offer, and who is he trying to fool anyway, it’s decided already. He’s wanted to go and watch the choir rehearse ever since he first heard the new recital. And what’s the harm? Attending an Evensong may just be the perfect way to end a busy day, and what’s more, he could check out that voice he heard. Just from afar.</p><p>---</p><p>That Friday, after all the workers have left for the weekend, Martín makes his way to the chapel. He chooses a seat towards the middle of the nave, close enough to be able to fully enjoy the nuances of the songs, but not so close as to disturb the monks with his presence.</p><p>It’s been an unusually stressful week. The bishopric as one of the financiers of the church restoration have been hounding him endlessly about the cost of painting supplies for the frescoes – their tight-fistedness is rather ironic, considering the mounds of money the Church is sitting on and besides, what happened to a frugal life in service of the Lord? The monastery itself is footing part of the bill as well, and they haven’t complained. As if a week of alternately schmoozing and reprimanding the diocesan Finance Council wasn’t enough, Martín has had to deal with yet another meddlesome phone call by Sergio. As a rule, he knows that his best friend means well, and it’s not like he doesn’t have grounds to worry about Martín...both of them have never forgotten that night in the shower. But Martín has moved on and he’s doing better these days. And if the life he has built for himself isn’t what Sergio wants for him? Tough luck, Martín thinks. He <em>does</em> possess enough self-awareness to know that Sergio’s white-picket-fence life isn’t in the cards for him. He’s too gay to have a socially acceptable life, too brash and loud for a lot of men, and too much of a mess for the rest of them. There will be no double dates with Sergio and Raquel, there will be no commitment ceremony, and there will be no terraced house – but that doesn’t make his lifestyle of clubbing and hook-ups slutty, thank you very much, so Sergio can tut and lecture all he wants.</p><p>The sound of footsteps on the stone tiles shake Martín from his ruminations. Some of the villagers have entered without him noticing, and Martín exhales, letting himself sag against the backrest of the pew. Yes, the meditative stillness of the chapel and some beautiful singing will be just the thing to restore his spirits.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Mihi autem nimis honorati sunt amici tui, Deus:<br/>nimis confortatus est principatus eorum</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The monks enter one by one, accompanied by what Martín now knows is an introitus, a chant to begin the celebration. They move around the choir, heads bowed reverently, taking their assigned positions.</p><p>
  <em>Domine, probasti me,<br/>et cognovisti me:<br/>tu cognovisti sessionem meam,<br/>et resurrectionem meam.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>At last, there it is. The voice that has accompanied Martín almost day and night, it’s deep timbre always at the back of his mind.</p><p>It belongs to a man who appears to be around Martín’s age, tall, with a lean stature and slightly tousled dark hair. He moves with grace and the sort of quiet confidence that only people deeply at ease with themselves achieve. All in all, he looks both surprisingly young for a monk as well as ageless in these spiritual surroundings...more like the sculptures of saints and angels in the church than a human of flesh and blood.</p><p>The call and answer of the introitus continues for a while before the abbot turns toward the people assembled in the chapel and begins his reading. Martín trains his eyes toward the magnificent wooden cross above the altar and lets the words about friendship, love and forgiveness wash over him.</p><p>After roughly forty minutes, the Evensong comes to an end with a final dismissal and blessing by the abbot, after which the monks assemble and walk out past Martín in silence. He’s furtively stealing glances at the man towards the back of the group – he doesn’t know why, but it somehow feels intrusive to him to observe openly, like he’s not meant to, like he’s not worthy of the attention of someone living in an entirely different reality than himself. But just as the friar is passing by Martín’s pew, he turns his head and their gazes meet.</p><p>Dark brown eyes assess him, curious but not without warmth. The scrutiny is intense in its stillness – just a look, no gestures – and Martín can’t help but think that he’s never been more vulnerable than right now. He should hate this, he should move away or at least break the lock of their eyes, but he can’t move. Finally, the air shifts imperceptibly, the spell is broken and the friar inclines his head towards him, a corner of his mouth slightly turned upwards. <em>A smile? A greeting?</em></p><p>At the very least an acknowledgement of Martín’s existence, of the fact that he was seen, and somehow not deemed deficient, not even in the eyes of the Lord.</p><p>Life hasn’t left Martín with any faith in him and he’s told himself that he doesn’t need divine goodwill, but this moment feels like a benediction nonetheless.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Melpomene</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part 2 of my monastery!AU</p>
<p>Remember when I said I’d try to update fast? Well I lied, and I’m terribly sorry! If you're here, thank you for still caring about this story, even though I pretty much left the fandom for a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I apologise in advance for the angst, but Melpomene is the muse for tragedy, and we had to go there eventually. If it's any consolation, I have plans to continue this AU in a standalone story.</p>
<p>Please don’t hate me too much?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>8. Melpomene (Tragedy)</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Lord, thou hast proved me, and known me: Though hast known my sitting down and my rising up, </em>the choir sang in the chapel, and when that monk, the voice in his dreams for quite a while, had met his gaze, Martín thought he understood the meaning of the hymn.</p>
<p>He felt <em>seen</em>. Exposed, in a way that was uncomfortable to him who had learned to put up guards very early in his life, but also <em>acknowledged. </em>As if the eyes of something greater had looked at him through the eyes of this monk, already knowing his highs and lows, his gifts and his flaws. An imperfect human being, but not insufficient.</p>
<p>It’s been several days, and he is still so shaken by the whirlwind of emotions in him that it’s hard to stay focused on his work when he knows that the man with the angelic voice and the profound gaze is within the same walls.  Unsure of what he wants – attend another Evensong and maybe get a chance to talk to the man, or maintain his hard-earned equilibrium – he buries himself in his work.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the end, the decision is taken out of his hands. On the next Thursday, two days before Saint James’ Day, Martín is high up on the scaffolds, inspecting the recent stonemasonry work on the columns flanking the church nave, when he hears a voice calling out his name.</p>
<p>“Señor Martín!”</p>
<p>Absentmindedly, Martín calls down, “I’ll be with you in a minute”, not paying attention to who is waiting for him on the ground. He climbs down from the scaffolding, and only when he’s dusted off his pants and straightens does he see that it’s the abbot – and he is not alone.</p>
<p>
  <em>He’s here.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The soloist is here.</em>
</p>
<p>“Ah, Señor Martín, I see today you are working even closer to God than usual.”</p>
<p>The abbot chortles at his own joke, and then turns, gesturing towards his companion.</p>
<p>“Padre Andrés has noticed your presence at the Evensong. As well as your labour for the Lord here, of course! And since he’s more than passing fond of the fine arts himself...well, we leave our past lives at the gate once we decide to take the Solemn Vow, but you are both men of some erudition and a profitable conversation certainly is allowed according to our Rule, is it not?”</p>
<p>Martín can’t help but think that the abbot he was introduced to weeks and weeks ago certainly would’ve warned him of the dangers of loquatiousness, but there is no room for his usual brand of flippancy right now. He nods, and fervently hopes that his nerves don’t make his voice quiver when he replies,</p>
<p>“Oh? Were you a patron of the arts then, Padre?”</p>
<p>Thankfully, Martín sounds calm and steady, lighthearted, even. His palms get clammy when the man in question turns away from the abbot and towards him, his gaze revealing no emotions but open nonetheless. His lips quirk in a wry smile.</p>
<p>“No, I was a bit more hands-on than that...more of an art dealer, I would say. But I have left that world of wheeling and dealing behind.”</p>
<p>The abbot smiles and pats Martín’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“See? I knew you two had plenty in common. Well, I will leave you now, I have duties to attend to. Padre Andrés, remember that it’s your turn to deliver the reading at dinner tonight.”</p>
<p>The other monk just nods in acknowledgement and the abbot bids his farewell with a “God be with you, my son.”</p>
<p>They are left alone, and even though they are standing in a large high-ceilinged building, Martín feels as if his perception has narrowed and he becomes hyperaware of the other man’s presence. He has both desired and dreaded a moment like this: Curious like Icarus drawn to the sun, he wants to bask in Padre Andrés’ company, letting its light shine on him, but deep down he knows how all good and impossible stories end, he is aware that following his instincts might just break him in ways he can’t even conceive yet.</p>
<p>Yet here they are, in this moment, and Martín cannot deny that he’s longed to speak to the other man when it’s just the two of them.</p>
<p>“Reading at dinner?” Martín asks, if just to pick the conversation up again.</p>
<p>Another lopsided smile.</p>
<p>“Yes. According to Chapter 38 of the Rule of Saint Benedict, our venerated founding father, there is to be silence during mealtimes, while one of our congregation delivers a sermon from the Scriptures. It is customary for the reader to enjoy a few silent minutes of contemplation beforehand, which means that I must not lose sight of the time. Our abbot is a strict observer of the Rule, as you surely have noticed.”  </p>
<p>Martín chuckles slightly.</p>
<p>“Yes. I have. That’s why I was quite surprised to discover you and your brothers spending so many hours singing. I wouldn’t have thought Saint Benedict counts that as a worthwhile pursuit.”</p>
<p>“At its most basic, the Rule tells us one thing. <em>Ora et labora.</em> Pray and work. Music and singing can be both, especially if you work hard to perfect your art to His glory.”</p>
<p>The padre’s turn of phrase sounds a bit too much like he is standing on a pulpit, too ornate and ponderous for Martín’s taste, as lapsed as he is. Nevertheless, Martín gets the impression that every word is meant genuinely.</p>
<p>It’s characteristic of their acquaintance, and of Martín’s whole time spent at the monastery so far. He should stay away, yet he can’t. He does know better, yet he still listens to his heart above his head.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>In the following days, Martín often thinks back to their first meeting in the chapel. How he felt touched by a destiny greater than the workings of his own mind, no matter how above-average intelligent he is.</p>
<p>Padre Andrés begins to make time in his rigorous schedule to chat to Martín. That first conversation seems to have been a push of sorts that neither man knew he needed – for Martín, it leads to the revelation that beneath the monk’s habit is just a man with unique traits and foibles. In turn, the other man begins to open up, allowing Martín to simply call him Andrés. The growing trust and familiarity is undeniable when Andrés tells Martín about his previous life, because he hasn’t always belonged to God.</p>
<p>“So, when you said you were an art dealer, you meant on the black market? You were a <em>thief</em>?”</p>
<p>Martín cannot help himself, he is bent over and wheezing with laughter. Trust and friendship notwithstanding, Andrés still has a somewhat pompous air around him and it’s difficult to believe that he ever engaged in illicit activities or associated with unsavoury characters.</p>
<p>Andrés regards him, first with a put-upon expression, which then changes into reluctant amusement.</p>
<p>“That’s not quite the reaction I was expecting, but yes, essentially. Paintings and statues, mostly, but also jewellery. That’s how they caught me, you know, trying to hawk a necklace I’d, ah, <em>obtained, </em>without knowing that the auction house had a tracker on it.”</p>
<p>Martín chuckles, but makes a placating gesture.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sorry. I know everyone has a backstory, I just didn’t expect yours to be so...colourful. So, what happened next? Don’t say you’re one of those people who found God in prison?”</p>
<p>Andrés scoffs.</p>
<p>“I did find God in prison, but not how you think it happened. I was never <em>one of those people, </em>and those prison clerics couldn’t find their own backside, let alone help others find higher purpose in life.”</p>
<p>His derisive tone changes, becomes softer, more matter-of-fact.</p>
<p>“I had a lot of time on my hands, you know. And I saw what happened to other people with similar career paths as mine. Some made too many enemies on the outside and got shanked during recess. Others got out and went right back at it, but their senses were dulled, hollowed-out, and they could no longer see the good in life. I didn’t want to become like them. One of the biggest reasons why I became an art thief was the aesthetic of it, the appreciation of beauty. But prison sucks a lot of that out of you, and I thought I needed to do something else with my life if I still wanted to live it to the fullest.”</p>
<p>“So you’re trying to make amends by becoming a monk?”</p>
<p>Andrés shrugs, smiling slightly.</p>
<p>“In a way. I simply decided that people were always in it for their own sordid reasons. Nobody ever saw beauty the way I did, nobody ever loved art like I do. Everyone I met, friends, business associates, lovers, they all disappointed in the end. There is nobody out there worthy of my love as much as God and his creation, and is not art godly too? Joining this order, exercising my body through work and my mind through prayer and philosophy and song, is my way of paying homage to all the brilliance in this world, and it is much more fulfilling than everything that came before.”</p>
<p>Martín is endlessly amused that a man of God could simultaneously be so secure in his faith and yet so pretentious, believing that other people and their motivations were beneath him. Still, the explanation makes sense, another puzzle piece in the fascinating and contradictory enigma that is Padre Andrés.</p>
<p>“Well, if it helps any, I think you’re not doing too bad as a monk”, he concludes their little discussion. “The thrill of the chase is probably missing, but you still get to do what you love, in a way.”</p>
<p>Andrés smiles at him.</p>
<p>“I do. And sometimes, as stripped of the trappings of normal life as we are here, there can be a thrill to the discovery of the little moments. A new song. A new season. A new acquaintance even, although everything is fleeting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p><em>Tempus fugit, </em>and the age-old saying has never been truer for Andrés than right now. Ever since the architects and builders set up shop at the monastery and – though they tried hard not to – disturbed its bubble of studious serenity, Andrés feels like his life has become a rush of sensation again. He thought he’d left all of it behind when he joined the order, but apparently all it takes to bring the heady rush of emotion and restless curiosity back is the presence of one Argentine.</p>
<p>
  <em>Martín Berrote.</em>
</p>
<p>Andrés is not one to look up to others, to chase people and to crave their company. In his previous life, he barely had any friends and was standoffish to those few he would call acquaintances, secure in his sense of superiority. Now, as a monk, he has even less reason to suffer the company of others. His fellow brothers are always around, sure, but they mostly focus on their work, both physical and spiritual, and there is no time for tittle-tattle.</p>
<p>But Andrés finds himself craving the company of Martín like an exhausted man would welcome a fresh breeze on a hot and sunny day. His presence in the monastery is invigorating, if only because the contrast between his outspoken nature and the smidgeon of deference for the religious surroundings is highly amusing. Learning that Martín, for all his worldliness, is able to appreciate and enjoy ecclesiastical music, and music in general, is even more of an unexpected joy. These little flutters of emotion lead to making time in his rigorous schedule to for a little chat, allowing Martín to observe him painting during a rare moment of quiet. Andrés is letting the other man in, and before he knows it, he’s in too deep and didn’t even see it coming.</p>
<p>A dream is what turns his world upside down. Maybe worse than a dream, a premonition.</p>
<p>
  <em>Andrés is in the monastery. The building is empty, there is nobody apart from his fellow brothers, and Andrés knows there should be someone else. The scaffolding is still there, but there are no builders. No chatter, no hammering, nothing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Emptiness.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Andrés wanders the halls and the cloister and the gardens, always looking, always searching.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Nothing.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There is a presence in his heart, still, and in his head, an echo of past days, but the present is devoid of it.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Andrés wakes up in his cell, covered in sweat, cold dread washing over him like a bucket of ice water. He instinctively knows what was wrong.</p>
<p>
  <em>Martín was supposed to be there. </em>
</p>
<p>The implications of the dream lead to Andrés dividing his time neatly in three ways: Do his chores, spend time with Martín, begin and end the day on his knees praying.</p>
<p>Begging, really.</p>
<p>An endless litany of,</p>
<p>
  <em>Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. I have had impure thoughts about a man.</em>
</p>
<p>He doesn’t dare say these words during confession, only rolls them around his mouth in the privacy of his cell. From then onwards, his internal monologues usually become mental flagellation.</p>
<p>
  <em>I know that sometimes I am too involved with myself to be a vessel for your love, Lord, but I am trying. I’m trying so hard, and if you don’t want me to falter, then why would you test me like this? Why would you put the one person in my path I have missed all my life? You tempt me with everything that I have ever wanted, with love and companionship, but temptation is the Devil’s work, what have I done wrong that you punish me so?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Why would you grant me the gift of love, Lord, when I am not allowed to express it?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Martín knows how difficult love is, he has had friends and family extolling the virtues of monogamy and marriage to him, the dreams of happily-ever-after and the white picket fence. He’s had his heart broken and he’s steered clear of any notions of romance thereafter, thank you very much.</p>
<p>That doesn’t mean that the feelings decide to stay away from him, of course. He reluctantly acknowledges that he appreciates Andrés’ physique underneath his monk’s habit a bit more than he should, but this reluctance is nothing compared to the dismay he feels when he realises that he also appreciates Andrés’ company so, so much.</p>
<p>The awareness that nothing will come of it is both torture of the worst kind and a healing grace. It  allows Martín to just spend time with the Padre, enjoying it to the fullest, gorging himself on smiles and shared jokes, because he knows that once the end of his contract at the monastery is reached, they will never see each other again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>In the end, all the well-thought-out arguments and rationalisations are in vain.</p>
<p>Martín draws his departure out as much as he can, staying behind after the builders are gone, using the pretext of putting his company’s affairs in order, making sure the client is satisfied, but eventually he finds himself in the chapel, alone with Andrés.</p>
<p>The Padre found him there, in the spot where they had their first meaningful conversation. Nothing much is said, just a few platitudes along the lines of <em>what will come next. </em>They don’t dig deeper, because whatever comes next, another meeting won’t be in the cards, and the future suddenly looks unappealing. They say their goodbyes, and they hug – their first and last physical contact.</p>
<p>Andrés smells of candlewax, frankincense and something earthy, <em>grounding</em>. His arms are strong and Martín never wants to let go.</p>
<p>When they draw apart, ever so slowly, Martín sees the faint glow of the chandeliers reflected in Andrés’ eyes and – perhaps it is divine intervention, he will never know – decides to speak. A shaky inhale.</p>
<p>“Andrés.”</p>
<p>The other man looks him squarely in the eye, hands still resting lightly against Martín’s back.</p>
<p>“I...you know I’ve never had any belief in anything. I’ve told you all about my life, more than a man of God would probably like to hear, but... Well. You never judged, you just listened. And you’ve changed me, more than you realise. You’ve changed my beliefs, because I...I didn’t expect to find someone like you here in this place, I never expected to find someone at all…”</p>
<p>After that, his words fail him and he gazes at Andrés helplessly.</p>
<p>Andrés, the man he is hopelessly, irrevocably in love with, and who stares at him with wide eyes.</p>
<p>Martín doesn’t know why he said anything, but his heart still shatters when Andrés rasps out,</p>
<p>“Please…Martín, don’t…don’t say it. Don’t ask, don’t cross that line because there’s just devastation on the other side.”</p>
<p>Shockingly, the monk looks as destroyed as he sounds. He looks as destroyed as Martín <em>feels</em>, and his eyes are wet, and in that moment Martín notices that he’s crying too, and so he just nods imperceptibly and walks out.</p>
<p>He doesn’t look back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Thalia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we are – chapter 9 of 9. </p><p>This one is inspired by Valentine’s Day, one of my favourite movies, and the storyline that speaks to me on so many levels, mostly because I’m either a frustrated or a defiant single :D</p><p>I never thought I’d write more than oneshots, I never thought I'd make it this far and I absolutely didn’t expect this much positive feedback. Thank you for sticking with this story even though I didn't post for over a month - it really meant the world to me and encouraged me to keep writing, whether in this fandom or for my other OTPs.</p><p>I hope you like the final chapter, a well-deserved reprieve after all the tragedy 😊 </p><p>Have a great December, and whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I wish you peace and happiness for the rest of this year and the year to come!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>9. Thalia (Comedy)</p><p> </p><p>It is a truth universally acknowledged that all a happy couple needs is to constantly show each other their affection. Massive bouquets, flashy jewellery, oversized and entirely impractical plushies, what could be more romantic?</p><p> </p><p>Alright, irony off.</p><p> </p><p>Andrés de Fonollosa firmly believes that all he needs is a break from the bullshit, and his exasperation with the so-called romantics is never more apparent than on the 14<sup>th</sup> of February.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking Valentine’s fucking Day.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not that he’s opposed to love, no, far from it. He’s been through five divorces and innumerable short-lived flings in between the marriages, he knows <em>everything </em>about love. What he hates is the superficiality, the routine, the lack of inspiration of it all. Love is something to be chased, to be celebrated, and the object of one’s affection should deserve more than subpar chocolate or a cheesy card that’s been produced in the thousands. However, he seems to be largely alone with this opinion, as everybody else in Madrid seems to lose their goddamn mind once a year. And this year, it’s even worse.</p><p> </p><p>You see, wife number four ditched Andrés on Valentine’s Day. Every relationship after her didn’t even last long enough to mark the day, so Andrés decided to change everything up a little and offer some <em>inspired</em> entertainment on this day, for anyone who is of a similar mind as him. </p><p> </p><p>An I-hate-Valentine’s-Day party, held annually at the restaurant of his late father’s best friend, Agustín. It’s an open event and since Andrés’ network is quite extensive, as is befitting a successful gallery owner, attendance is usually pretty big.</p><p> </p><p>Until this year. On the morning of the blasted day, there’s not a <em>single</em> RSVP. Incredible. <em>Unheard of</em>. Andrés calls Sergio in a fit of desperation. He needs moral support, and who better to deliver than his socially-incapacitated younger brother.</p><p> </p><p>“Sergio, it’s a disaster. A catastrophe. Forget the Titanic, forget the Hindenburg, I may as well bury myself.”</p><p> </p><p>An exasperated sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on Andrés, don’t be dramatic. What’s going on? And please don’t dive into your usual soliloquy, we’re having a busy day at the office and I don’t have any time to waste.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés huffs. A conversation with him is <em>never</em> wasted time.</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody’s coming, Sergio! NOBODY. It’s the 14<sup>th</sup> of February, the worst day in the year in this city of lonely hearts and lonelier minds, and yet nobody has rsvp’d to my party.”</p><p> </p><p>Sergio clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yes, the party.”</p><p>“YES, the party,” Andrés snaps, “what else could I possibly be talking about? The one we’re having every year, only this year we’ll be murdering the pinata ourselves, because there’s nobody coming! What’s going on? There couldn’t be a better offer because everybody who matters knows I throw the <em>best </em>soirees, so what, the whole of Madrid is suddenly happily coupled up on today of all days? PLEASE.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Then Sergio cautiously speaks up.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, as you said, it’s a big city and there are many lonely people. Is it so unlikely that you meet somebody who’s looking for companionship? You’ve found someone five times already, Andrés, you should know all about that.”</p><p> </p><p>Wow.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s a low blow, brother! Sure, if you’re looking for someone to alleviate the loneliness, maybe you could find someone. But true companionship? You know how difficult that is to find, otherwise you wouldn’t be coming tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>Sergio swallows audibly.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, about that...you remember my co-worker I told you about, Raquel?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course,” Andrés replies impatiently, “the one who moved here from Toledo. What about her? You can bring her along of course, the more cynics, the merrier.”</p><p> </p><p>Sergio chuckles a little.</p><p> </p><p>“Well...the thing is, Andrés...ever since I helped her with that project for the national bank, we’ve been talking a lot, and...we’vekindofbeendating.”</p><p> </p><p>The last few words are rushed out on a nervous exhale, but Andrés knows his brother well. He can read every inflection in his voice and is extremely familiar with his mannerisms. Not to mention he can suss out a guilty conscience <em>anytime</em> (he’s the older brother, he’s had practice).</p><p> </p><p>“What are you trying to say, you’re dating?”</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Andrés, being obtuse doesn’t suit you. Raquel and I have been dating for three months now, and it’s going really well. Which means that me and her are going for dinner and that open-air movie screening at the <em>parque</em> tonight, and I won’t be able to make it to the party. I’m really sorry, I know that you counted on me being there.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés doesn’t know how to react to that. So, naturally, he goes off at Sergio for the next few minutes.</p><p> </p><p>“...and you know what else, little brother dearest, I never would have believed that you of all people would be stupid enough to fall for rampant capitalism and insipid marketing ploys!”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t fall for anything, Andrés. I simply met a fascinating woman and fell in love with her. Can you honestly tell me that, despite your five marriages, you’ve ever felt something remotely similar? That you pine for somebody’s company, that a single text from them is all you need to have a good day, that you’d do anything and everything to make them happy? I don’t think so, because all you’re interested in are vapid socialites and hysteric art dealers. You’re not in the market for a relationship, you’re looking for someone who’ll fawn on you at every turn. It’s all about you, every time, and yet you never even open yourself up enough to have a chance at happiness, even with one of those people. So, you know what? <em>I’m</em> going on a date tonight and I will feel <em>zero</em> guilt over not attending your party. And maybe <em>you </em>will seize this moment as the perfect occasion to have a good long hard think about your choices in your so-called love life. Please don’t call me anymore today, I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>A click, and the line goes dead.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the other end of this phone conversation, Sergio huffs in frustration and buries his head in his arms. It’s been years since he last flew off the handle at Andrés like this but damn, his brother will cost him years of life expectancy.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not like Sergio doesn’t understand the true reason behind his brother’s outburst, because he does. Until recently, he had been unrepentantly single as well. Building deep and lasting connections isn’t a trait that runs in the Fonollosa-Marquina family, and Andrés’ five marriages were all doomed because of their superficiality. What frustrates Sergio is that the older man is so self-absorbed that he’s completely unwilling, nay, unable to seek fault with himself. Sergio used to be like that as well, but then he met Raquel, who dragged him out of his shell, made him laugh, and opened his eyes to a world of possibilities. To a world where he deserved love, where he could be loved by <em>her, </em>and where he had to do the work that came with building a relationship. Truth is, he used to be scared of losing control, of being vulnerable, but if being so means he gets to be with Raquel?  It’s all worth it.</p><p> </p><p>Sergio knows Andrés has never felt like this. His older brother has always been self-absorbed, self-assured, and utterly unwilling to change. And since he was always surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, he never had to, either.</p><p> </p><p>But this year, things are different. Sergio is with a wonderful woman, everybody else seems to be paired up as well and Andrés is facing the prospect of actually being alone. At at event. At that anti-Valentine’s party that has always been part of his too-good-for-all-the normal-things shtick. It will be Andrés’ worst nightmare, obviously, but at this point in time Sergio isn’t above delivering a little tough love. And with that train of thought, he has another idea...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>From: Little Brother, 16:33</strong>
</p><p>I hope you’ve gotten the drama out of your system, Andrés. I meant it when I said I’m sorry I can’t come. And because I only have your best interest at heart, I have invited a colleague of mine to your party. Please don’t be your usual self, I actually like the man.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>To: Little Brother, 16:40</strong>
</p><p>I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m perfectly pleasant company at all times.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>To: Little Brother, 16:41</strong>
</p><p>Also, what do you mean you invited a colleague? You’re aware that I have standards at my parties, aren’t you, Sergio?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>From: Little Brother, 16:53</strong>
</p><p>Yes. I am aware. His name is Martín. He’s very intelligent and charming when he wants to be. It’ll be fine. Enjoy your evening, Andrés.</p><p> </p><p>If at all possible, Andrés is even more annoyed than he was this morning. He’d been resigned to go to that damned restaurant and attend his own party, alone, just because it wouldn’t do to cancel the reservation. He’d been resigned to have dinner and copious amounts of wine, alone, followed by more alcohol, alone. Now, he not only has to go out, but he has to spend the evening with a complete stranger – because anything else would mean losing face, and that is simply unacceptable.</p><p> </p><p>Well.</p><p> </p><p>Andrés is a master of cold politeness, so with any luck he’ll have gotten rid of this Martín fellow before long.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>8pm rolls around and Andrés enters the restaurant, <em>Agustín’s Bodega, </em>laden down with decorations. The basic trappings are always set up by the staff, but Andrés prides himself in always bringing something <em>extra</em> to his events – in this case, party crackers filled with lube and condoms (just as a giant <em>fuck you </em>to monogamy, boring married life and all that) and a massive piñata stuffed with the most exquisite Belgian truffles. Never let it be said that Andrés de Fonollosa has no style, even though he’ll be the only one eating the truffles tonight.</p><p> </p><p><em>Agustín’s </em>is full of people and the waiting staff are rushing around, nevertheless Agustín takes the time to welcome him with a warm smile and a half-hug.</p><p> </p><p>“Andrés, dear boy. Back again this year.”</p><p> </p><p>If he wasn’t such an old friend and a trooper for hosting this party every year, Andrés would unman him on the spot for calling him a boy. And for the subtext in this welcome.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, yes, Agustín. You know how it goes. You spend your time dating several beautiful women and annihilating your competitors in the trade, and then you blink and it’s 2020.”</p><p> </p><p>The other man smiles wanly.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes, we’re all terribly busy. Still, I’d hoped-“</p><p> </p><p>Before he can go into any detail what exactly he hoped for (something along the lines of Andrés fathering two point five children with a high school teacher), Andrés interrupts.</p><p> </p><p>“So, we’ll be a significantly smaller group tonight, but that’s not an excuse not to go full-out. I’ll just go and set everything up.”</p><p> </p><p>Agustín sighs resignedly and nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you do that. The buffet is set up, the open bar is stocked. Feel free to call us whenever you need anything else, you know the drill.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>---</em>
</p><p> </p><p>About an hour later, the open bar is significantly less well-stocked and Andrés has eaten almost the entire tray of parmesan mushrooms. Sergio’s colleague hasn’t shown up, but partying alone isn’t bad at all, not if he gets first go at his favourite appetizers.  Sergio hasn’t called either, so Andrés is resolved to just drink the rest of the Hennessy and then he’ll go home, maybe check in with his little brother in the hopes that he’ll at least have gotten soggy pants from sitting in the grass with his stupid date.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me, is this the right spot for habitual singles and certified sarcastic assholes?”</p><p> </p><p>The voice is completely unfamiliar, the South American accent unmistakeable, and the choice of words makes Andrés look up from his musings on cognac and open-air cinema.</p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p> </p><p>The man grins.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sorry, it’s just that Sergio gave a very vivid description of this event and some of these words were definitely in there. I’m Martín, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>Ah. The colleague. Andrés doesn’t get up, but gestures at Martín to make him sit down.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I gathered as much. I’m Andrés, as you undoubtedly have realised. Sit down, have a bite, have a drink. There’s plenty.”</p><p> </p><p>Martín does just that, and while he demolishes a large plate of ossobucco and a <em>very </em>fine Italian red (much too fine to be chugged down like that), he continues to prattle at Andrés like they’re old friends.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, this isn’t how I imagined this party at all, despite your brother’s descriptions. It’s – for lack of a better word – <em>fancy</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“You have spoken with Sergio and he somehow forgot to mention my impeccable tastes?”</p><p> </p><p>Martín laughs unreservedly.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no, he mentioned that you’re very…particular. It’s just, this is a Valentine’s Day party. Or, anti-Valentine’s Day party rather, right? And given how late I arrived, I assumed that everybody would be wasted and varying degrees of teary, belligerent or vulgar by now. Not to mention that I imagined more people, in general.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés huffs.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well, had you been here last year, it would have been like that, more or less. But this year most of my social circle have found themselves someone to share the mediocrity of this day with, it appears. Including Sergio.”</p><p> </p><p>All of a sudden, Martín’s cocky grin vanishes and is replaced with a calculating but soft look.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Yes, <em>oh.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> “So, Martín, I already expected nobody to come tonight and I only came here because Agustín is an old friend and the food is excellent, so. You’re not obliged to stick around.”</p><p> </p><p>The other man smiles easily.</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I’m not here out of pity, in case that’s what you’re thinking. Sergio talks a lot about you, and yeah, he made you sound like an asshole, but an interesting one. So I figured I could do a lot worse than come to a party of two people where I know exactly nobody.”</p><p> </p><p>The honesty is disarming and Andrés can’t help but laugh out loud.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, in that case, why don’t you grab us that bottle of scotch and tell me about how my brother is at work? I can only imagine he’s an insufferable know-it-all, like he was at school.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It turns out Martín is more than pleasant company, and his bawdy tales of growing up in Buenos Aires have Andrés in stitches more than once. Under duress, he might even be willing to admit that he’s having a really good time, so much that he actually doesn’t notice the hours fly by. The booze has loosened them up, and when Agustín puts on his ridiculous 80s party playlist, Martín actually starts dancing.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Andrés, don’t be such a stick in the mud. It’s not Verdi, but it’s fun.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés conveys his severe doubts of that statement, but his objections fall on deaf ears. Men at Work starts to play and Martín grabs his hands and yanks him to his feet unceremoniously.</p><p> </p><p>That’s the tableau they present to Andrés’ friends, who suddenly appear in the doorway. Two grown men, hopping and flailing around, with silly grins on their face. Entirely inappropriate, but somehow Andrés doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here? Weren’t you all supposed to celebrate the commercialisation of sentiment somewhere?”</p><p> </p><p>Silene glares at him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Yes”,</em> she hisses, “we were. And dinner was awesome, up to the point where he paid and didn’t want to go home with me so I could fuck his brains out. He said he had a business partner coming around for a late drink, and who the hell does that anyway, but then that person turned up and –“</p><p>“It was me”, Ágata chimes in.</p><p> </p><p>“No way”, Andrés and Martín gasp in unison, because, what the hell.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes way” Silene replies and Ágata continues the comedy of errors.</p><p> </p><p>“He was the guy I told you about. You remember, the one I met at this networking event at the wine bar downtown? And he seemed really great, like a good partner for the firm but also for some extracurricular activities and I was really fucking excited when he asked me out, I didn’t even think about why he never wanted to meet any of my friends, or co-workers.”</p><p> </p><p>“Apparently chatting up younger, successful women under the guise of networking is his thing,” Silene explains further. “He did it with both of us, and tonight he booked back-to-back tables at the same fucking restaurant without actually considering the possibility that Ágata and I socialise outside of these stupid events too!”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a story so completely over-the-top and improbable that they all dissolve into peals of laughter. What were the chances.</p><p> </p><p>“And what’s your story, big guy?” Martín asks Mirko, Andrés’ agent.</p><p> </p><p>The big Serbian just shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“My date took one glance at the picture of my nieces on my phone screen and spent the next five minutes telling me how much he dislikes children. I’m not gonna waste my time with an idiot like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés pats his back. He shares the date’s opinion about children, but Mirko is a good guy who deserves someone who will give him the family he wants so badly.</p><p> </p><p>They all deserve more than they’ve been given so far and it sucks that they haven’t, but as they find themselves here again, alone and yet together on Valentine’s Day, Andrés feels a lot better about this day than he has in a long time.</p><p> </p><p>With more people around and the booze flowing liberally as always, the party finally kicks off in earnest, and Andrés discovers how easily Martín fits in with his friends. He doesn’t back down when faced with Silene’s snark and some of his comebacks are so sharp they leave the woman speechless for once.  He’s as good a dancer as Ágata and they put on a showy tango that’s got the rest of the group whistling their approval. He shares Mirko’s bawdy sense of humour and isn’t fooled by the other man’s gruff exterior.</p><p>He understands the meaning and motivations behind Andrés’ words but doesn’t embarrass him by verbalising any of it.</p><p>Andrés realises that Martín is a virtual stranger and yet he feels like he’s known him forever.</p><p>Eventually, exhaustion sets in and not even the whiskey-coffee cocktails that are Agustín’s specialty can revive them, so they begin packing up leftover food and the sweets from the piñata. Andrés will stay behind, so he hugs each of them goodbye and they promise to get together again soon.</p><p>Eventually, Martín is the last one, lingering awkwardly in the doorway.</p><p>“I had a really good time.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrés smiles, softer than he usually does. He’s tired, tipsy and mellowed-out by the company of the people who make him feel safe.</p><p>“So did I. You fit right in with the rest of us sad sacks, so I suppose I won’t be mad at my brother for making you come here tonight.”</p><p>Martín laughs.</p><p>“I won’t tell him you said that, alright?”</p><p>Martín gets the sibling rivalry and doesn’t judge. Yet another reason why he’s wonderful, and Andrés feels emboldened.</p><p>“I have something else that you shouldn’t tell him.”</p><p>Martín tilts his head slightly, looking at Andrés, happy and open.</p><p>“Yeah? What’s that?”</p><p>Andrés swallows.</p><p>“How about you have dinner with me tomorrow, somewhere without a piñata and infinitely better music playing in the background? And if that works, maybe a coffee during our lunch breaks some time after that?”</p><p>Their gazes lock.</p><p>“And after that”, Martín asks softly. Andrés smiles, suddenly not nervous at all anymore.</p><p>“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”</p><p>Martín steps closer. And closer. He leans right into Andrés’ space, and murmurs, “alright”.</p><p>It’s barely more than a whisper of air against Andrés’ lips. Their mouths brush, lips catching slightly, moving apart again but staying close.</p><p>“I won’t tell your brother about it.”</p>
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